I can vary the days, in new and exciting ways.
But at the conclusion of every tale
There is only me.

My scent permeates from the bottom of my mattress to the top.
My headboard.
My pillows.
My sheets.

There are no stray hairs,
colognes,
perfumes,
bodies
offering me their characteristic aromas at night.
Or 5 AM.

Whatever time suits me to rest my head.

The monotony of this imposed monogamy that is my isolation makes me crave my vices.
Cars. Skin. You. Me. Hookah. Whiskey.

The phonetic alphabet redone in my image.

Even my intoxicating secret has been left out to dry.
Its sticky, salty-sweet air has left me.

Melted chocolate in a gilded wrapper, waiting to be reshaped in His image.