It ain't love unless it's eating you alive

Summer nights spent under siege, torrents of Freon-frozen air pumping from a window unit only too effective, coiled body nestled inside downy warmth and dreaming of warmer places still — that coveted space between two arms, two hearts. Comfort is a vulnerability, an example set by gentle rays of sun coaxing blossoms into bloom, and thoughts emulating those fields of flowers shoot up inside a relaxed mind without warning. Could I be allergic? My throat is closing in around my breath. Sweat is beading on my forehead. A savage acceleration in the thumping of my heart has mutated my pulse. Hard to believe I could be whipped into such a frenzy by so benign a thing as conjured images, the suggestive curve of a brow, angular cut of a jaw, blur of dark hair drifting across a pale face. All the more unbelievable to be so abruptly at the mercy of even just the fantasized sensation of a chin digging into bare skin... stubble like sandpaper intent on scouring flesh from the mess of sinew pulsing hot and anxious just beneath a surface stretched too thin, surely, to protect itself from the onslaught. The fact that the experience defies explanation does nothing to prevent my attempt to seek it, but the quest for reason is as fruitless as ever. Answers to this mystery fall away one by one, picking up speed the more I grasp at them, their bruised petals slipping to the earth until the seemingly endless fertility of that field all at once becomes barren. Dropping dead just as suddenly as it sprang to life, this whimsical world withers with just one word: why? Inquisition murders magic.