I am an old fool who plays with machinations of younger men. I still fall for the traps laid out for me a decade ago: learning nothing from the envious ghosts who riddle my past. I hear the tocsin toll, resonating through my heart, as the walls begin to stagger up to dam the growing tide of emotion erupting forth.

It feels much better to know, that you won’t feel a thing.

Time has slowly constructed me another defense; the separation of concerns of the heart. No longer am I paralyzed by these feelings. No longer is my brain gripped by the long dark fingers of dread. These walls have grown stronger due to time and faster in response. This smile has perfected its veneer to hide the surging self-contempt. These extraocular muscles have swelled to pry this gazing eye away from the single object of intent. The well has grown deeper to swallow the serendipitous sacrilege of her form.

Everybody wants to see the worst in you.

Limiting love for a lustrum I cannot allow myself to be taken again. The visage she has so elegantly laid in the caverns of my heart must be carved out. For of all the things that have been shed off, all the vulnerabilities that have been allowed to come to play; this single one, must never from shadow reveal. For then my heart would be empty and the truth would out, that I have a hollow heart, and nothing to give: neither to audiences nor to her.

And just like that two titillating acts lead to a disappointing third.