Until I was 34, I spent my whole life away from my favorite person.
At 25, I summoned him.
At 20, I pretended he didn’t exist.
At 15, I pressed pillows between my legs fervently praying he was real.
Now, at 34, I have found him. And, he is bound by the baggage of other women.
i know he writes about me.
at least, i know he writes about the me he created.
i love the songs he sings for me.
though, i hear only stories of old friends who’ve become strangers.
i know he remembers and honors…
my capability, my hair’s smell, my sensuous crooked lips…
i typed “our” stories for him.
i know he will never write of me.
he still swoons for her– his distant beatrice, his too close for comfort blanche.
he will never find the icons to paint me.
because, foolish boys, summoned or not, can never sculpt these round lines.