I wonder, if I gave my fantasy painted form with words, would the reality of each delicate brush stroke disappoint?
Would cock shrink and mind wander as boredom crept across your face if I were to attempt to explain it’s motivation?
Would you be tempted to over paint my strokes with gaudy shades when I showed you that carnal flame merely licked the paper edges, and did not provide the main source of heat?
And then, once,
would you take advantage of my child-like wonder, and douse your flames with my naivety, or would you gently prise opportunity from my begging hands, and show me your authentic self as I wish to show you mine?
I’m tired, and need to lean my head upon authenticity so that I may rest within this reverie.