i'm not really here, you know.
i'm the air above your head,
the next beat of your heart,
the second wind in your race
towards that thing you're

i'd like to say i'm real,
but we both know i'm not.
i'm the image you have of
perfect love, you're sure
it exists, but you're not
sure you'd recognize it if
you saw it.

long ago someone tried to
make me real, dreamed me
into being and invested
hopes and desires and
time in me, then went
bankrupt when the note
came due.

you like to think you'd know
me if you met me on the street,
but you wouldn't know me even
if i came up and introduced
myself to you. i'm not
beautiful or special or
anyone you would think would
hold your interest for more than
a few minutes.

your eyes would slide over mine
and you'd smile a vacant smile
and miss the light in my eyes
and the knowing in my smile.
maybe you'd shake my hand, but
your eyes would already be on
the woman behind me, checking
to see if i am her.

your dreams of me are sweeter
than my reality and it wouldn't
matter if i were the most beautiful
woman on the face of the earth, you
wouldn't know me if you met me.

you may even laugh at me, never take
the closer look necessary to know
everything i am. you'd never see
how i shine in candlelight, how i
glow in moonlight, how i create
sparks in the dead of night when
there is no one but the two of us.

your lack of imagination is your loss.


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