Thor

You stand on the cusp of greatness. Stranded between the world you buried your heart in and the one you occupy now, you sing as the lonely nightingale does of secretive things. Like the silver locket you bought for yourself and then never showed to anyone, the extravagance like a fiery brand against your skin. Now you wear a cheap, tiny pentacle and a moon to remind you of the vows you made.

And he enters your thoughts tonight, tall and strong and harp golden haired in the eye of your mind. He who would shake every mountain, uproot each tree and raise Jörmungandr from the depths of the ocean. He who hears your frantic whispers as shaking hands light the candle, the tears on your face fresh as the daisies. He did it again, you whisper, the pin the boy pulled from your lungs rattling over the floors.

He took a rolling dive away from the sudden explosion he had created, a nuclear fusion rising in your heart to overtake your senses completely. That is why you sit before the altar with words quick upon your tongue as you call on the god you love to wreak havoc and plague on the object of your disgust. Will Thor answer? Only tomorrow is sure.