It’s not a controlled experiment, mixed up as it is with coffee, alcohol and the onset of a cold. I am compelled to write in the dark with the bright screen of the tablet fueling the insomnia. My thoughts race faster than my heart. I’ll try to subdue my feelings by restraining them with words.

Chocolate is longing disguised as a promise of satisfaction. I once had a lover who ate only chocolate and drank only wine. Passion was just hunger. I never thought to look at the experience, only to analyze the causes. She rejected me. I protect myself by feeling nothing.

I agreed to your experiment out of curiosity. Wait. More honestly, I agreed because I want you to understand me. Sometimes I think you do, but your reflective gaze makes it hard to see. What I would give to watch your eyes soften. I’m drawn to the sharp edges of impossibility. Chocolate is like any of my addictions; a test to push and risk falling, cut and face blood.

Sleep is impossible. There are scuff marks on your leather boots. I want to remember exactly the words you used to describe your perseverance while breaking them in. Your hands express so much. Meanness has a satisfying sting. Tenderness is bliss. I dream of you and awaken to resist letting go. There your arm lays across my chest, heavy with sleep. I feel your watch tick. I want. I resist wanting. Chocolate has no effect on me at all.