Oh, my dragon.
How it pains me that I must be away. To be yet unable to see you. I suffer, and I suffer for you.
This pain, sweeter than honey. Too sweet. And I suffer.
How I want to see your golden-fire fur adorning those muted scales atop your form. How I want to see the cloudy sky in your eyes once again.
Kept away from me, and oh, how I suffer.
This weight I carry for long and dark nights, night after night. Without rest. Endless . . . And it pains.
And the pain is yet become to bear sweet and delightful flowers, tinted with the essence of willful sorrow.
There is fire in and out from me, and I breathe but its remains. And yet I see but black.
As the chains are broken, more come to me. Hammered into place with nails.
They tug away at my soul, my heart, as I lay under the deep darkness of five nights. And on the sixth, I tug at them myself.
And it goes on and on, and when the sixth sun once again deceives me into relief, in wonder my scales I see that begin to shine with your muted