I know I'm not supposed to write about you but I did

You are comfortable with our life because you are beautiful. You see me struggling with my errant passions and you shrug and turn back to your computer or to bad evening television or to that podcast you have been listening to. You’ve seen it before, this ugly flailing about, this grasping at intimacy. You would be more concerned perhaps if you weren’t built the way you are, with a tight lean frame and the most beautiful eyes and an incredible eye for structure that you know I find irresistible. When you are erect and naked it is a thing to silence even the most insistent nagging of my insecurities. I am not a slave to beauty but I am not immune to it. I find you are enough to make me wonder why I develop these little irritations that swell like boils under my skin, festering and worrying me until they burst and I see that they were nothing but the kind of love that friends should generally be safe to share. But I am all or nothing, all love or all hate, all life or all death and in my swing between each state of absolute passion I pause now and then and find that I have exhausted myself.