In many ways I am Empiric. To bring people into my world is nearly impossible if you were not created for it. I am beautiful, talented, and ambitious. It has been awhile, and I would like to go for some excellent dining, perhaps a performance, a film at the festival or something of the like with no expectations. I will not lie, I have an attraction to impossibly lovely men, and the creative in life. Write and send your picture, perhaps we can meet.

When he was asleep my finger would trace his face with an adoration he would never understand, laced with a sorrow I wish upon no person for the human body has no design to endure it. The tip would lend to trembling and I lay amazed by the weighted meaning of that singular reach of my own to his skin. Rare. The abandonment of trust to my hand in this rest filled my soul with an unforgivable longing. Worse to find I merely caress muted sheets with a tender finger crooked, and he lays elsewhere in some shadow, perhaps in some overtly comfortable embrace that will never know the impossible yearning I never believed could exist in the human soul or body withstand. Is it best that he not know that depth of himself or my touch. That he roll over, waken, eat breakfast, and the myriad of things that he did before and will do again. That I leave him to waste, and cross a continent to forget. For him to be less. And one day will hear that he has passed on. Is that best. Perhaps.