does knowing me more lead to loving me less?

does seeing me unhidden

make me less of a wonder to you?
when the masks are gone,
and all that’s left is raw and real,
am i somehow smaller, softer,
less than you dreamed i’d be?

is my unvarnished self a disappointment—
not the mystery you chased,
but a truth you wish you'd never unraveled?

did the knowledge of me, once thrilling,
become too familiar,
too close,
too plain?
did my openness soothe you into stillness,
leaving you without the hunger
that once drove you toward me?

or is it not the knowing that dims love,
but the comfort
that makes you forget to pursue it?

tell me—
is the heart less precious
when its doors are flung wide,
its corners revealed
in the stark light of honesty?
or do we only cherish
what remains elusive,
what dances just beyond reach?

perhaps it’s not love that falters here,
but our frail need for conquest,
our ache to claim
what was never ours.

and i wonder,
as i stand before you bare—
is it truly me you wanted,
or only the chase?