You.

Now you wouldn't want me to start blogging about things do you? Things that are rather private, for only the two of us, for both of us? For us as one?

No you wouldn't. But you would want me to speak of something, something rather hinting that of sorts. The kind of delicacy in gossip in which you approach the application of relational responsibilty with. Yes you would rather desire that in me. Probably an innate reaction to your own psychological need to do so. Which I rather, or rather definitely, enjoy. Seeing that you are willing to impose that upon yourself, I am rather pleased, and am compliant to do the same. For you. Just for you only.

Now, I do it in a different fashion. For you have described events, and carefully casually embedded mine, me, that which I (and you, both of us too) own, into the sexy symmetry, tapestry, and masterpiece of your apparently simple, natural, tiffann(i)ysh blogging and recalling, but I have drawn out it's beauty from it's psychological origin's. I've taken what's inside you and me and put it inside each of us, in each other.

I am heavily laden with sexual innuendos.

I love you.