The One That Almost Won

“So pretty, yet so concealed.. like it’s owner.”

She whispered as she ran her fingers over my tattoo. The equivocating nymph. She teases me. Alluring, yet so distant. Corporeal, yet so much impermanence her thin fingers invited.

Angels are bright, yet the brightest fell. I felt as if Shakespeare penned it for me. It’s been a while since I’ve met anyone that quivered me on my pedestal. And there she was, lying a breath away from a blowjob and yet an eternity from my possession.

I was waiting for something. Something, I’ve long forgotten and yet the very basis of happiness. Reciprocation.

And she was Me, subjugating me to the very game I created. The very domain where I lord over. The evil to which I’ve long abandoned. Emotions.

She talked, yet none of her words reached me. A superfluous spew of trivialities that lacked the very vulgarities I now wished to hear.

I was irate.

I’ve been a tool of revenge for spiteful girlfriends, I’ve been booty called and I’ve been a bi sexual’s experiment. But this bothered me only because someone else was playing it better, colder.

Is this what is feels like to be normal? People with emotions must really hate living.

“How did someone so pretty lose his heart?”

Twirling her hair with her fingers.

Me: “Cos he met someone… and she went away with it.”

Her thin lips pressed against each other, almost hiding a smile.

Then she got changed and I felt blue-balled, even after all that sex. Nothing. I would have been just another conquest. A bragging right. A talking point.

No. The Butterfly isn’t in love. Or remotely close for Cupid’s proximity. I’m hardly even attached to her. I’m pissed at my slip up, my hominal leak of emotions. Perhaps I was finally crumbling..

Then one hook up 2 days later and a check up with Red certified that I was back in full health.