This story is monstrous.

"You read, knowing that the story must end. After all, what is love but an ending?"

Your glibness doesn't ease the cruelty of this declaration.

"Only words are needed, now. Of course, only words were ever needed...words that only you can hear, because they are your words"

Oh no. No, it's not that easy. You can't step back now. These are your words, your story. No postmodern pretension, no psychoanalytic projection can excuse what you've taken, what I've given.

"It softens to a whisper as you reveal how you want the story to continue: how you want to be held, and touched, and how you want to feel. This is my orgasm. This is the perfection that I dream of, that I strive for."

Of course, it is. You want my want, not me. You don't want ME. And what am I supposed to do with that? Grasping fantasies are dull beneath my fingers when yours have carved such longing into my heart.

When writing is so good it devastates me--when I lose interest in composing my own silly stories because such exquisite words of tormented desire (the essence of all I am) have already been written, what's left?

I love you.