I live for a certain artifice, and that artifice is you, the muse I meet in my dreams.
This meeting is not allowed to be beautiful, not supposed to be looked upon with wonder like some semi-precious stone.
If I say that I love you, it is to be punctuated with guilt.
Always and before anything else, I am expected to know intimately and preach loudly my own farce.
I love you, but I don’t love you. How could I?
You aren’t supposed to make me happy, not if I’m capable of doing that for myself.
I shouldn’t welcome the ghost of us, the dreamy haze that coats my eyelids on colder nights.
I should want more. Humans are meat-eaters, after all.
We seek flesh and flowers, sweet whispers and cheap chocolate.
It is our duty and birthright to claw apart each other’s egos to find a pure, holy reality waiting beneath.
Of course, the point of falling in love comes long before that moment, before we unravel the fiction we worked so hard to weave.
A certain artifice is acceptable, after all — the threshold falls right beneath my feet.
In my fantasies, I breathe fire and ash.
I drink your praise like wine.
I am yours.