Oh, deceitful heart, betraying me with poetic fancy that can come to naught. He is but a shade, a shadow, and soon he will be gone. Yet he is here now, breathing softly beside me.
Was I ever this beautiful? Certainly my master cherished me for a time. I was a jewelled cup, a dish, a sigh. Yet I, too, was but a shade, and my time in the sun drew too quickly to its close.
His is about to begin. He stirs in my arms. He will pleasure a King and in the pleasuring will seek what he can never find. I would tear it out of him, this longing, for his own sake; for he is so very lovely. And perhaps that is the nature of beautiful things, to want completeness?
He asks me if I love him. Foolish boy.
Who could not?
The End