You're always terribly worried that I'm poking around in your head. Most people have no mental barriers, you know. It's all savage vanity thinly-veiled in gossamer social mores, and some aren't even heedful that far. But you...

My constant soldier. Erik. MyErik. Your shields are innate, impossible, and self-taught. Conjured by that absurd intelligence and maintained by the chip-no-the gaping wound on your shoulder.
You're bloody stubborn and like Fort Knox, you are, and there's a vanity in that too, truly.

I you ever wonder, as I bite my lip and keep my distance, keep and keep on keeping out-Christ.Do you ever wonder what I'mthinking?

Most days, I feel like a fool. And not because I burn the coffee, and you make it better. Not because I can't wrestle or shoot a gun, and not because you beat me at chess. I rather like that, even though you laugh at me, in fact I adore that you-

Oh never mind. It's not those things. It's that every single thing that you do, and still more what you deny me, makes me love you more. I love you so very, very much Erik. I'm smart enough to know that. I've felt enough hearts, dangling on insipid, perpetual psychic fishing line, to know what a live one beats like, and I know that mine's alive now, that it wasn't before...and that now, it beats for you. don't want it, do you? Good joke, that. Frankenstein's Monster (as if the nomen were at all appropriate in the first place), has no idea what to do when the tables turn. You probably don't even realize the irony,...that you've found, remade...reforgedmy heart, only to blink quizzically at it in stunned silence, at a loss.

And you are. At a loss.
Because even beside you,
With, or below, or within you, yes even then, my darling...

Your soldier's silence starves my longing mind.

Erik. God...Erik. It hurts.

It hurts like dying, to love you.