Ne'er did I want to be loved;
it is a danger, this feeling.
He said that I was his bliss,
that I was a paradisaical abyss.
I cross his roads with caution,
not wanting to perish in his phatic words,
to be hung from a noose under his fingers,
or was I blind and they were strings?
But a compleat man is he:
his words you will ever crave,
his kisses are ever yenned.
Wounds he bring no cure can mend.
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