You are the archetype glorified, androgyny’s king, the unobtainable and uncontrollable. You will never be mine, nor any other’s, for who could ever be worthy of you? You shall never have an equal and yet like a fool I search for your rival in every face, your replacement in each pair of beckoning arms and willing body. You haunt me, incubus, muse of my basest desires. Every thought of you mocks with its impossibility but still my eager flesh stirs in response. Have you ever experienced such insatiable hunger? The deep bone ache of an emptiness never completely filled, a culmination repeatedly denied? Of course not; you are complete, a self-contained universe. You need nothing and want nothing, take nothing and give nothing. I would surrender every part of myself, have already surrendered heart and free will both to your worship, but you would refuse my devotion. So what is left to me? Pathetic fantasies and poor imitations of your perfection, strangers I can only stand to touch in the darkness where I can’t see their faces. It isn’t the taste of your sweat on my tongue, though, and these fleeting climaxes are wasted on the whores as unworthy of me as I am of you.