Casanova’s burning eyes

He was hot, with burning eyes and with a hint of danger about him. They warned me not to go near him. Not to let him seduce me to touch him. Like I am a fool to simply throw in some extra wood to heat up cold and lonely mornings. He wasn’t even that attractive and I knew he had gone through piles of others.

Still, he kept staring at me.

Hissing my name.

Until I believed his inside was what counted. That smooth glowing, warm care about the world around him. The positive effect he had on people, on me. My clouded judgement. Because in the end he turned out to be as black, cold and empty as they told me he would be the moment I asked him to go exclusive and not use others to fuel his ego. The fire died. He can’t commit to one and to make matters worse he even told me only the slim, stick-like types can really turn him on.

So next time I look for sparks in a stove, I will be more careful. Knock on wood.

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