Steganography II

Inside pages are secret exchanges.
Promises between your scrawls and mine.
Meet me. Three nights from Monday. 
Writing is a supplement for what I'm too shy to say.
I wish you were my Sir Lancelot.
But I'm too Lady of Shalott for your liking.

Slight touches. Prolonged gazes. Read my thoughts.
You're not clairvoyant and I'm not transparent enough.
But you're like a twisting maze: misleading.
Words threaten to vomit out of my mouth until I'm sick.
And I end up nonsensical as Jabberwocky.

I don't want you to become my heroin.
An illogical addiction, obsession without reason.
But your smiles already hooked me in like a blind catfish.
I'm waiting inside your hotpot, ready to be eaten.
I'm going to be sliced up and chopped apart.
For what explicable reason?