I can’t touch you like the others
"I can't touch you like the others. They were first. I can't kiss you like the others. They fulfilled your thirst. I wasn't the one to do your healing. I am cursed. The thing I bring is not about pioneering. It is not about unlocking or opening or being the one that does the deflowering. Mine is a far more subtle art. A much more humble pursuit. A craft that's mostly about keeping you smiling. I'm the blacksmith of your laughter. The one that pounds the molten ore of your past on the flame of my affection and turns it into royal swords and spoons with which princesses scoop delicatessen. I am the diver that with nothing but a nose-clamp drowns into your soul to pluck pearls from your oysters. I am the winter that allows you to molt. To shed the skin you no longer wish to adorn. I am not the author of your person. I am not the painter of your beauty. I am not the sculptor of your style. I am your reader. Your buyer. Your voyeur. I always wondered what was the reason I met you in old age. After the playfulness of youth. After the hedonism and the experiments. After the scars were not only slashed but also covered up and concealed. I think the answer is because you always knew that one day you wouldn't be as spectacular as you started off and so you entered into a vow with me, the one with the weak eyes, the one without pride, the one so broken that he would even accept satan as an avatar of the divine. 'Be my lover when no one else will,' you had said. And I had, necessarily, agreed. You must think now that it was all a good deal for you. But you see I get the last laugh! It has been a sweeter deal for me."