You’ll mistake me often for love.
Each night it will be, with the right words and my skillful touch. Each morning you won’t think to question it.
What blissful agony it is, to experience something so profound so quickly. It was never like this with other people.
You’ll be so addicted to this synthetic version of love; appetites never-ending for the things we crave in each other.
A delusional realness, an illusion of closeness; nothing else will matter. What’s worse is you won’t realize you should want something better.
Mistake me for love, and you’ll have no idea it’s all a lie.
A Series of Observations 