Witness me.
I'm still a man despite the obligatory monstrosity, a drawing of unfathomable anarchy which can only be grasped from afar. I speak my loyalty to my lover upon various brims I'd never claim as mine. When I kiss you, it's never an act of love. Fairly enough, not even a mere iridescent voice. I enjoy discovering people who capture my interest in my own meretricious way. I touch naked souls as well as naked bodies, simultaneously. And I'd flee before mine is even peeked upon, for that piece of hell was never made to be touched, nor do I expect it to be meet anyone's cynosure.
I'll never tell you I love you. When you leave, I'd never ask you to stay and when you come back, my mouth would never utter the fatuous articulacy of me missing you. I was never trained of such humanely eloquence. In my world, emotions are insidious secrets that leaves with pieces of your being and if you share those, you become incomplete and breakable. I find my reassurance in being brittle, unable to even be bent.
I still like watching you from afar, capturing your little details and the penumbra of the judicious tints that composes your pastiche. Even if my hands crave to explore the bewitching outlines of your topography and my lips are scalded by curiosity for the electrifying taste I visualize of your mouth, I can only explore you when I'm yearned for. Your expectations erases the imprints that pencil left on my sketch, and darling, I come in black and white. For that swarthy line you despise is the only thing that keeps the page from being blank.
Witness me as I am.
Let you sketch you as you are.
