How was I to know that I was being escorted to an arid existence bereft of any and all emotion? I imagined no guile and continue to be convinced that there was none. So, is it my fault that I’ve hardened beyond any tender caress’ repair and show no semblance of a being sodden with passion?
How am I to compel my eyes to gleam mischief, and in so doing, communicate my innate desire? When you search my dry eyes for a missing jamboree, I have not an option but to tearlessly shy away. I do not expect to be rescued. I’ve been ordained far greater torment, and any attempt to wrinkle the design will only lead to a plot far more contrived. I ask, I implore you to not be my savior. Leave. Look away. Your charm - as a dying ember or a melting snow flake - is lost on me. I can tell without any sliver of doubt that I will find my way back to you. I’m no prophesier but I do know for certain, I’m due retribution.