Like the mannequin in the window,
She’s distant and fake,
Locked behind a pane of glass.
But I’m the glazier who put it there.
It’s more comfortable to see her like this.
I can imagine her however I like.
Her personality feeds me,
Her lifestyle compliments me,
Her motivations inspire me,
And from delusion springs hope.
I subsist on that hope.
On that spurious idea,
That perfection is before me,
And ready to receive me,
Whenever fate brings us together.
But how much longer can I survive,
Feeding on the shriveled husk,
Of a fatalistic promise,
No one ever made?
Indeed,
It’s already too late,
But I’ll never admit it.