I never promised I'd love you, nor have I ever asked to be loved.
I don't want to be starred at with dulcet hues, oozing pheromones of dalliance. It only strips me off my layers to reveal the repugnance beneath and the looks of aghast following was never of my liking. I don't want to be touched by jubilation, I find it irksomely evanescent. As if life is sending you a fake smile, it sends a furtive distraction your way before you trip over to emit a laugh out of the witnessing audience.
And I will never be the clown you ridicule his maladroitness.
I only want to hush my loneliness when it mingles itself with the quiescence of my solitude. I want my arms to embrace a form of vividness instead of wrapping themselves around antic nothingness. I prefer the sound of slurps over the howls of wind through my window. For it's either the saltiness of your skin or the bitterness of my cigarettes, the latter never gave me the satisfaction needed to find a halt.
No need for exchanging meaningless poems or chasing after one's worth in the dedication of someone else's. I find my contentment being a provider more than being replacing my emptiness with fictitious providence. Sounds of pleasure could replace a beating heart to keep the blood flowing, the tug on my hair is all I need to pour my clattering thoughts between a stranger's heart.
I'm here to give you what a lover would do without loving you. This is a safe place, no empty promises and no heartbreaks. Only contumaciously breaking norms of the defamatory swarthiness of the night.
