You hide from me, like you do, behind emails, messages, comments, silence, bullshit excuses and that velvet curtain of fear you retreat behind.
Show yourself in the spotlight of my late afternoon sun. When I make you laugh, you will drop that veil and never live backstage again. Oh, you might get pissed at me. No, you definitely will get pissed at me. But I won't ever use the knowledge of your weak spot against you. This trust will generate your interior glow. After our first few fights, you will remember having good old fashioned disputes without nastiness. You'll remember making nice before going to bed, and points of friction not rubbing you and yours raw.
No need to hide anymore.
Emerging before the popping flash bulbs of our commitment to each other has risks, sure. But you won't be the only one risking something significant. Men are fragile. You'd set the construction of my temple back a couple thousand years poking your finger into the secret space between my dragon scales.
Your last partnered performance didn't turn out the way you hoped, I know. Well, it's just hard getting life right the first time.
I cannot finish building this temple by myself. The ancient blueprints say so. The plans call for a ladder, someone to steady it, and no backstage. This temple is going up as surely as the sun loves the planets. And this book I'm writing here is the story of its construction, of my everlasting love for you, and your stepping into the spotlight of my life.