Such a sense of decadence
as your fingers skim,
greedy along my skin;
no words spoken
in silent dialectic—

You'd like to own me, wouldn't you—
that's the fetish that most tempts;
as you press me against
a cold-fogged window
our forms become distorted.

It's not a question of ethics,
or even hegemony;
I'm a myth you've created in your mind
made up of tidbits from my dating profile
with no substance in reality.

You've got to let me go now;
it'll be for your own good.
But when I tell you I'm not real,
that I’m a fiction,
down to my deep-faked face
(I wear it like a mask)—

you reply that your reality
has no meaning
without me.

Those words shouldn’t touch me
they’re no more real than I am.

I let you sink in torpor,
dreaming of worlds that aren’t
and never will be real;
as much an invention of your fancy
as I ever was—

except, my darling,
I think I might be
far more real than you.