This feeling pounds at my chest and rips through my stomach with nausea. It’s a heady mix of elation and shame, neither of which you could possibly share.
I want to hold you close, but I worry. Not just about hurting you, but about the way the late-night voyeur in my mind would hold my love for you in such contempt. How I would no longer be a person, but a symbol — the fetishist, the one who defiles.
But if I did, could I be blamed? Your beauty is haunting in its construction, to the point one might wonder if man has finally defeated God. But the specter of the puritan still haunting my heart proves otherwise.
If I give you a name, will you come to life for me?
If I give you life through love, could that be enough?
