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The Pomegranate of Perdition Splits Open, jeweled seeds spill toward the altar of longing: Bloom, My Crimson Orchard.

Velvet skins rupture beneath trembling fingertips, while garnet nectar stains the mouths of saints and sinners alike. In every chamber of dusk, the fruit of devotion hangs heavy-ripe with hunger, glistening with unspeakable ache. We shall wither sweetly beside desire, feeding upon the bittersweet marrow hidden beneath our scarlet ribcages.

Until the hour arrives,
bruise me, taste me, unravel me.
Until every seed within me
belongs to your palms alone.
────── ᪙ VOW.

Do not tremble, for I shall never depart. Even when affection ferments into something ruinously tender, it shall remain steadfast beneath the chandelier glow of our private catastrophe. (“Ah, to be split open by your warmth, to drip endlessly into your keeping.”) And so the pomegranate bleeds; not in sorrow, but in WORSHIP.
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