Bracelets of smoke

Here I sit, in your favourite chair, my arms held stiffly out in front of me. Bracelets of smoke swirl around my wrists, never dissipating, never drifting away. They bind me as surely as your love ever did.
I dare not leave the house any more. Even high winds don't push the smoke away, and in sunlight they scintillate, coruscate, sparkle so brightly that teenage girls come up to me to ask me if I'm Edward. I stare at them every time, willing them to step back, to hide their faces and run away like the timid creatures they are, but they are trapped by the depraved urges of wish-fulfillment. They stand their ground, pretending to a cloak of sexual allure they've stolen from their older sisters and their mothers, but beneath it all is the frightened virgin desperate for me to be some kind of shiny eunuch with deep-rooted emotional problems that they can angst over until they finally grow up. It is always I who walks away, tongue-tied, unable to see how I can say a word that won't destroy the illusion.
And your bracelets of smoke writhe and contort around my wrists like fiery snakes mating at dusk.