Dearest, for you I would only commit myself unto not a soul.
Why, you say, would I do that?
Simple, I am cruel.
Yet, not so much I would dare break your heart, for you see that is my goal.
I would love nothing more than to **** you sardonically with unsaid words, as I tip my hat.

Cynicism has never been so sweet while it plays with sarcasm, a duel.

Ah, you say my dear; you do not like my game?
What shall I do when you blatantly refuse to play?
It is such an intriguing, miraculous, subtle shame.

The wind it whispers, through you, sweet nothings, a cliché.

I do not understand why you, my love, must be so coarse.
Perhaps, it is a twisted and torn revenge for a wonderful inferno.
Yet, what have I done to deserve you to take me by force?

Passion, it has never before been so thorough.

If perchance you shall ever come to anything unsaid…
I shall not be in this ever present bed.