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You did not appreciate my thin line, did not find yourself walking there. There you were and yet you wanted more.

You want aggressive passion and the fruits of a good night's fight, a slow-fuck afternoon. I'll be that if need be. But I am also this other stuff, this other stuff we all are.

I will not push you beyond what you know if you're not receptive. Nor will I pretend I'm not there for the sake of your comfort. Discontent brings change and I need to live in that state--we all do, I suspect.

To live in conclusion is to already be dead. You, dear flower, are neither dead nor wilting. You are very much alive and vibrant and tuned in to The Real, if only as an abstract notion.

When The Real is no longer abstract, an ideal, a Utopian wish, only then are we alive to the fullness of each breath. The universe is but a breath. These complications, well...they are our own.

OUR own. Me, inclusive. This is why I prod; your problems are my problems, necessarily. You want to know what I want? Only this: You. Naked. Without your baggage. Stripped of your gods, your hate, your fear, your self.

Yes, I'm selfish. I want all of you as you truly are. Sometimes I am rain, flower, but only to be your food.

So eat me!

(sorry...lil' joke there.)