I know I appear cold sometimes, too controlled, too logical – like the fictional Tin Man, a man without a heart. I’m not used to showing feelings.
He never controls anything, he’s all instinct and if he’s allowed, he lets it out unfiltered, complaining loudly at full length about whatever distresses him. Sometimes I envy him.
He’s erratic, passionate, short fused.
He responds to me, responds to what I can’t express. Don’t ask me how he knows. Sheer instinct I presume.
My heart is blond, and beating outside my chest. Together with him I feel complete; confused at times, but complete.