Armor is not Amore

The excitement of being ‘his’ faded when lights weren’t on him.
In that space between stage-light and candlelight.

This ate at me, but I couldn’t figure it out.
Figured he, too, needed a safe retreat from the world.

He was a typical friendly and popular figure.
Atypically handsome, strong, and kind.

He was the perfectly mannered gentleman.
Perfectly suited for my outgoing personality, quick mind.

Our entwined fingers co-mingled our recycled hearts.
Quickly and happily mingling our lives.

We were into each other, laughed and loved at will.
Yet found myself willing him to dive into me, see.

We told each we felt deeply for one another.
Settled in less than deep waters, still.

His lack of intimacy gnawed at me.
Though I’d nod, and tell myself, “Give it time.”

I came to recognize this was his mask, not mine.
Not an act, mind you, as I doubt he recognizes his shadow.

Perhaps armor is more accurate.
But armor is not amore.

~Just L (October 19, 2017)

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