odin considers loki across the mead hall

There is no word as intimately

shameful as what I feel for you.

You, who seeks my gaze and guzzles

wine, mulled and sweet, that you knew

would be kept warm for you

even if you were late.

And so, you were late.

Such a word, could I conjure it

would come to mean spine-wound or

the flick of a tongue across my heart. 

At once familiar wanting and dread

and milk-bread memory

trust broken and rebroken

like fingers—tenderly.