I wonder, if I gave my fantasy painted form with words, would the reality of each delicate brush stroke disappoint?
Would cock shrink and mind wander as boredom crept across your face if I were to attempt to explain it’s motivation?
Would you be tempted to over paint my strokes with gaudy shades when I showed you that carnal flame merely licked the paper edges, and did not provide the main source of heat?

And then, once,
if,
you understood,
would you take advantage of my child-like wonder, and douse your flames with my naivety, or would you gently prise opportunity from my begging hands, and show me your authentic self as I wish to show you mine?

I’m tired, and need to lean my head upon authenticity so that I may rest within this reverie.