We were in love once. I think.
Exaggerated infatuation. Perhaps.
This writer of love-making on paper, sex slave of life, student of the world, traveler of my thoughts.
Subject of my dreams. He did not know I existed.
Or that his writings and my hearts were having secret adulterous meetings.
But I was fully aware.
An unspoken bond we shared for years...
He wrote, I read. He spoke, I listened. I yearned, he supplied.
The power structure was obvious as he was oblivious. I was his marionette.
A mistress to an unsuspecting master who knew not of his gifts.
I crept out of the shadows of solitude. Allowed him to intrude on my consciousness. Allowed him to probe the sins of my mind and heart I had hoped to file away in anticipation of absolution at some unspecified date. My vulnerability became his jester.