Sometimes he read me like poetry.
Another moment like prose.
The magic of phrases unveils my olive skins, tenderly igniting sensitivities like mystic falls.
He wields the metaphor of reverence by the last lines, just to leave me breathless.
I, thereby, contain my fondness like unrekvised odes, only to be disguised over time.
Whilst I fawn over his art, he like a hedonist allures my existence.
And maybe, that's what matters.
And possibly, that's why.
*Sometimes, love is love*
You prefer no mending in it.