and then some, his deepest dreams.
But a fantasy was all he ever wanted.
Just a dream.
She was only a dream,
but he’ll never see that light.
Ever chasing the horizon, chasing
ideas, thinking they’re people.
But people have hearts. Souls.
The steadfast, devoted wife was
a fantasy, too.
If I could make him happy, so was I.
In my head, it was real. But that’s all.
Where did he put all that love I wasted?
I’d like it back now.
A heart-shaped box, maybe…
Or did it merely vanish into the ether,
a slow dissemination of my soul, misplaced.
Or maybe love isn’t real after all.
Just another dream.
One I chased far too long,
ever chasing the horizon,
ever playing the fool.
Who am I?
Am I someone?
Have I ever been someone?
Or just a pawn, something pretty
to have, to hold, and to screw?
I am alone.
I understand that now.
I always have been alone,
and I always will be.
No matter what man pretends to love me.