Strange.

Such are dreams, hopes and fears, loose-wound around everything I am, defining me. Dreams are who I am.

And they are - I am - so facilely shredded.

Like silk. Smooth, not nearly opaque enough to disguise faults, individual fibers fragile but woven strong, though in the right hands as easily torn as single threads.

It is? Is it? What I am?

It used to frighten me for someone to have such rending power. Golden hair, silver tongue, slightly metallic-sweet taste of everything you on my lips, I can't help but stare into your eyes and wonder, occasionally, at the safety of the depth in which I feel for you, or what created first my freedom from fear of this - whatever "this" might be. My thin shroud of dread and sanctuary faded with your arrival, and no matter how many layers of clothing I have worn, I am bare and exposed to you.

It doesn't matter, does it? Having the freedom of the undefined is such comfort at times. Nothing to force away, nothing to hide behind, nothing to bind me.

You have said I am strong. Yet you grasp that, such strength as I may have, and could tear me without effort. Already.

Unbound, unbroken, with a thousand unwritten, unspoken words safely wrapped around your fingers. Threads of thought, trust and faith and pain and agony and fear and hope and all my life, caught up in the cloth between your hands as you pull me closer. All that I am in your hands and your lips against my mouth and my yielding body falling to what I've called magic.

It's something like beauty. Undefinable, a grey area, relative to everything and nothing at all. Words fail me.

I am silk in your hands.