Do not be so familiar.
I am as yet unknown to you.
Your arm has yet to slip around the curve of my waist.
Your eyes have yet to see mine in any honesty;
filled with sorrow, or joy, or pain, or longing.
Your fingertips have never caressed my skin;
they have never wandered across my naked body,
featherlight kisses following in their wake.

Do not be so familiar.
You only know what you think you know.
You do not know that I can storm into a room and
shut the door so very decidedly, so that you can be
left in no doubt that I want to be alone.
I can be changeable like the wind, my moods are sometimes
unpredictable; you think me wholly perfect but I am here
to tell you that perfection is a fallacy because we are
all of us, so perfectly flawed.

Do not be so familiar.
You know not my heart, nor my mind.
You do not know the books I read as a child,
nor the books I devour now, my forgotten cup next me.
You do not know how I like my kahwe, nor how I take my tea.
You know not the curve of my back as I stand naked
at the window every morning, no matter the weather,
to stare at the world and dream of my day.

Do not be so familiar.
There is a time and a place to do this.
There is a way, a method; there is protocol.
I am, at best, a complicated creature.
You do not need me to cure your loneliness;
you only need to be content by yourself.
Learn the silences of your own voice first,
and then you can listen to the silences of others.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Miraman, in the year 890 AF.