Reading your emotions was misleading. I spent more time imagining myself tracing the contours of your face with my fingers than unmasking you. Your words are… were ambrosia dripped into my soul. How lovelier your whispers would be if I nibbled on your neck. Fleeting were your touches, and they felt like razors on my skin. Sweet pain as my blood watered my wandering longing mind. Would that I could that they were just mine, on every inch of my skin. I’d’ve gladly burned under you. Once ago. You stared straight into my heart and what you saw made you shiver. I shivered that you shivered. Yet, your smiles were as warm as my insides could never be for you. It was an act, a darn fine one. Brava! Brava! It wasn’t an act. I should’ve listened closer. To your truths, the ones you whispered and intimated as though it hurt you to say them. I was blinded by your light. All I could do, what I did, was read between the lies.
But, they weren’t lies, were they? This is what my ego calls them.