love story

I am writing a love story
about myself, Shams,
and I am the protagonist,
or one of them.
Only we don't say that kind of thing,
can't call it a love story, because
he's too cool for all that, too cool for me,
too cool to tell me that he has me in
his eternity
just in case
he needs to break in case of
emergency.
Boys are careful like that.
In my storym
he is carving my name
into his blood,
rearranging his DNA, the plasma,
so that it buzzes in my presence,
sends chemicals in a flood
at just the simple thought of me.
And he can't stop that,
can't stop this urgency for me,
this scent in all things that is me-ness.
Love is such a forceful demoness,
and she has him pinned even if he
struggles against it.
My story is more about a
silly man.
In front of my eyes,
he puffs himself up and struts,
so that my heart beats,
not because I think he is great
but because he frightens me,
with this threat of this
callous indifference towards
a hundred different faces and people,
a small bead of 108.
Lies, love's first lies are understatements,
lies to oneself, lies to one's lover,
lies that one is infected,
a victim,
and yes, a simple word of mine
will soothe his sweaty brow,
send tension dissolving out
through his fingers, out through
his feet, out when he hears me
say what I know he carries
in him.
This is the story I'm writing Shams.
Watch me.
Watch me breathe it.

(starts good, finishes weak -- rethink this one. it's not so so bad)