I wonder if he only sounds like that when he speaks to me?

I can feel him, sometimes. Some nights, it's as if I am touching him, his hands in mine, bodies warm, slick, heat and contact, but never climax, never that final satiated feeling, only a sense of loss when I wake.

He talks of shadows, speaks with the precision and chaos that is found in dance, in a waterfall, in the way sunlight glitters on a lake. I associate his voice, his words, with so many bright things. Light. Reflection. Brilliance, not merely the glow outside, but the harsh hot fire he holds inside.

Some days I don't know whether or not to believe him. "All ego, no common sense," I tell myself, and hide from the arragance that I believe he wears like a threadbare cloak. Other days I believe him wholeheartedly, and then it is that I hide from the strength, from the danger that he becomes. Knifeblade eyes and a heart that I cannot prove exists.

And some days I don't ask myself if I believe him. I curl up... stroke and contact, touched with words as if each new syllable was a fingertip tracing its way down my spine. He has satisfied me, sometimes.

Other times, he has merely left me frustrated, annoyed at how seriously he takes himself, half-believing that the power he claims to bear is lies, half-believing that it is true... and envying him because of that truth.

It matters not that he is mine, some long nights. Even if he is mine, if he has that power, there is still not... not any way for me to lay claim to it.

If he is right, then he is something almost beyond my strength. If he is wrong, then how can I trust him at all?

Thin line, the width of an electron, the length of eternity. Is it any wonder that I am not always prepared to let him in?