What’s a player without their game

I don’t know why I’m not scared. Why the walls I spent so many years building have disintegrated to dust.

How when he removes his hand his touch seems to linger and I feel his kisses in the pit of my stomach.
 
I’m reeling with cliche’s; he’s unlike anyone I’ve met before, when you know you know. Yet they all feel unworthy. He is not a cliche, he’s not some happily ever after fairy tale prince. He’s better. He’s real. There is honesty in all his actions. Either he is a master player or he doesn’t believe in the game.

The only quote I feel that does him justice is by Lang Leav “I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before… in another time, a different place, some other existence.” 

Maybe there are no doubts because there is no game. My games require another player. Always basing my moves on the other players actions I will never be the first to make a move, but I always play to win.

Faced with a man who presents himself to me with no game, the only move I’m left with is to strip back my own. With the shedding of the layers, the ingrained reaction to dissect all his actions starts to fade away. I don’t plan my next move, rather I revel in the unknown. 

At first I feared that without the protection of my walls I was giving him the power to devastate my heart. Now I realize if anyone was to break my heart I would rather it be him. 

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