“Who are you”,
she asked,
only half-really wanting to know.
She wanted what I was,
not who,
and to know,
if she should go.

She knew who she sadly wished to be,
and became her,
perched upon her foolish self,
ignored the deep inside,
partitioned love like delft blue dishes on a shelf,
waiting for company.

She asked again,
to meet my eyes,
from eyebrows plucked and trim.
her entre based on sadness, sex
and partly on a whim.
“Could I ever be with him?”


Face me when you fade from me,
I’m not who you pretend.
I’m not he you think you see,
I’m not the one to send
you reeling from your reverie,
nor Transport from your sin.

Don’t invent my name
because it sounds like
love you’ve never known.
Don’t stand so still
in front of me.
Don’t walk so quietly
behind my back.

Don’t conspire
to tell me
tales and lies
or hide your thin
façade.
I do not laud your circumstance,
you present state of
happenstance,
I am not real enough in you.

I own the center of myself,
and
I am a Reality,
best left to Fantasy.

02/11/2008

Posted on 02/12/2008
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers