I can’t be measured. I can’t be measured with you. Not with you.
I try, I do try, but I fail miserably, each and every time. In the face of you, my carnality, my sensuality rises up, forcing its way through my skin, tearing at my flesh, dizzying my mind, shredding the seams of my impatience, my rationality, my experience of time. In the face of you and your body and your passions and your words, I am aflame.
In the end, it is this flame, this fire, my fury, my fervour that has burnt us right up for the very last time. And in its wake there is nothing but the need to guard and shield and hide this flesh, this heart, this vulnerability away, to paper over the fissure of desire you cruelly and tenderly tore open wide, to find my way through the tears and this pain to the love and the lust and the home of man I hunger and crave.