My lover, he calls himself, yet we have never made love. His lifetime of waiting, of searching is over, he says. I place no boundaries, I place no strings on you, he says. Words of truth or words of deception, I ask myself. I can read the words but the written word is yet to be spoken. His words, are gentle words, words that would melt the coldest of hearts. I can feel the icicles of mine beginning to drip.
He lures me with objects of desire:
Like a moth I am drawn to his candle, his words, his flame.
Why am I finding it so hard to believe, to trust. Why am I beginning to hear the alarm bells ringing? Has my eyes read something between the lines that my heart refuses to see? Am I being too cautious, have I gotten too comfortable with the way things are that I will not allow myself to accept new possibilities, see the horizons beyond these closet walls? I wonder . . .