Poem comes from the last bits of Lord Byron's "Darkness"
This is the first bit of the last chapter; I'll be adding to it as it comes, I think.
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.
I woke with the sudden and steadfast conviction that I had died in my sleep. Sitting bolt upright, torso thrust violently into the burning thickness of reality, my eyes were slow to catch on to the absence of ghoulish shadows and white-barked trees. There were hours before dawn. My still throbbing heart pumped viscous blood to my eardrums blocking out the would-be reassuring sound of Hades breathing next to me. Blood, breath. Things exclusive to the living. The spell of indeterminate nightmare was broken as I quickly turned to see my husband lying beside me, obeying his brother for the time being.
I had not been myself for months. Accordingly, the exhaustion I felt pulled me down a thousand times as hard until I heaved a peaceful sigh and was lost again.
I awoke, for the second time that morning, with more confidence. And this time I was not alone. The delicate space of the morning started with contact: a touch, a kiss, the matching of bodies in wrinkled sheets; I waited to feel which would come first, and as I rolled clumsily onto my other side, Hades' uncharacteristically eager lips met mine. His skin was always a catalyst and every touch sparked something strangely and independently alive—this time memories from last night floated lazily under my eyelids. I wondered if he could feel it too; if I touched his eyes, would my fingers detect the thoughts underneath like those quick movements during sleep. With a gentle, "mm," I broke the kiss and licked my lips. Hades smirked wickedly back at me and I knew he was remembering the same things I was: brief flashbacks of searching mouths and desperate, grasping hands and fingers, tangled limbs…thoughtless promises.
"Good morning," I said.
"Good morning." He said.
We stared at each other. Less than swirling, taxingly significant eye contact; more than passionless, recognitionless glances, we fell between. Adoringly, restrainedly, plainly, and with the knowledge of the stretches of forever, I looked at him and he looked at me, and each was all the other saw. We sparkled and crackled in the same strange way stars do—without the faintest suggestion of fatigue, without even the idea of what it is to burn out, die out.