I like to read your words and imagine they’re about me and for me and to me. I know they’re not. They came from you. They are of you.

They are not about me.

They are not for me.

They are not to me.

At least.

No more so than anyone else.

But still.


I like to imagine all the same. It’s just such a beautiful thing to delude myself that those gorgeous sometimes ghastly words were declarations of love.

I love.

I love to cuddle up to the idea. Snuggle into the notion. Adore it. Worship it and then fuck it silly until its writhing and convulsing in orgasmic bliss. Making it cum so hard that it begs me to stop.

And then I like to be gentle with the illusion. I like to make love to it sweetly.


That I’m there too.


Wistful Creep from Creepy Creek.