Sometimes I wonder if he hated me only because I saw behind his mask. I saw the vulnerable sensitive parts of him and I was still OK with that. I loved those parts. I just wanted him to love them too.
He wanted me to fall in love only with his own delusions of what he wished he could be. He wanted fantasy over truth. But the truth was much more powerful and beautiful than any fantasy ever could be.
He was more than he believed, yet he could not allow himself out in the light for fear of being seen. What he didn’t realise was he was making himself less than, not more. I hope one day he finds his way home, into open arms.
You’re a raconteur, witty in your ways, people speak your praise.
But often specious words you say, that’s how you take your prey.
Officiously you guide my day, telling me which way to stay. So you can feel you are enough, beyond my reach, just out of touch.
But nobody knows what’s beneath, your arcane ways where you snarl, sink your teeth. Incisive in your approach, but only on the surface beneath that you gloat, shrouded in your technicolored fancy make-believe coat.
JaxTrax 