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Click hereInside a tower built of stone I lie—
uneasy, nervous, eager—as if blind
and dumb and deafened. In my coward's mind
is mere uncertainty. I ponder why
you'd think you love me, know that I don't know.
You have no reason to. I am not young
as you are, handsome neither. I'm not hung
like horse (uh, that's a joke, of course) but grow
substantially with you as stimulus.
Now, I'm embarrassed. I just want to kiss
you, hold you—other things much more adult,
draw pentagrams, wear capes, indulge occult
raw fantasies where you are nude. I know
my tower's struck by lightning. You're tarot.