"Just that, said the fox. 'To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes.'
Drew glanced up, his eyes immediately finding mine. They flickered over my face, taking in my sleepy appearance. Then, with no visible change in his expression, he returned his attention to the book.
"'But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world.'"
Poetry isn't for civilized society." Drew said this suddenly, breaking the moment, but then saying no more.
I decided to prompt him when I sensed he would not continue without a push. "How so? I've read plenty of safe-for-work poetry."
"I'm not talking about greeting cards and sentimentality, not the stuff that gently warms your heart or makes you feel nostalgic." He lifted his eyes to mine, his expression stark and sober. "I'm talking about the kind that burns you, leaves scars, the kind that you regret reading because you can't forget it. It's a wild, feral thing. It has claws and it bites."