They wanted to ask how it felt to sway a heart. How does it feel to be like the midnight moon pulling from across the vastness of space, compelling the weather and the tides? What is it like to be the breaching Spring that excites the fauna and flora into wild eruptions of color and fertility, to then faithfully shed and wither so beautifully?
How do you live with such influence, such power, over a man's most vital part? Is it in your beguiling eyes? In your charming smile? In your reassuring voice? In the elegant harmony of all these things, orchestrated by the burning brilliance of your very soul? You radiate such warmth, like a line cast into the sea, that snags the willing fish, caught, never to recover.
Do you revel in the spectacle? Whenever you smile your secret smiles, is it because of the bemused wonderment of your own glamor, of your own glory? Are you aware how your every word carries such uncanny forcefulness, such unfounded gravity; and how your every gesture, spouts volumes and volumes and volumes?
Can you sleep still, knowing hundreds, out there in the still night, moan, and cry, and thrash underneath rumpled bedcovers and overturned pillows in a soulful dance moved by the loss of their pilfered hearts?
A man should not be so compelling; there is no justice there. From your neck should hang a placard, with ticks for every heart consumed and left behind, written in the red of freshly spilt blood. Would that suffice?
This is your conscience, a stray thought that tugs at your own equally-fragile heart, an unsettling reminder that one day, someday, the moon will ride across your starlit sky and the Spring will break out from within you. And on that day there will be justice, in sufficient capacity.
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