She said: Nothing kinky. You said: Don’t break
my heart. Neither of you got what you asked
for in the end. Now she’s gone and heartache
won’t save you from what approaches unmasked,
naked in ways that you could only pine
about. Winter’s twisted passion will say:
She called you apu, daddy, but you’re mine,
I’ll call you enyém, all mine, little fey.
Once you’d have harrowed hell for her. Now hell
looms to consume you. These cold months don’t creep,
they rush thirstily to you in ways that she
never did. That’s also kink, like the smell
of ice on the wind, snowfall’s hiss: Don’t sleep,
love, just watch what I do to your body.
Those who possess a vague unworldly knowledge of their own doom are said to have the fey on them. In Hungarian, “enyém,” means mine and, “apu,” means daddy, as in, “apuci lánya,” daddy’s girl.