I wrote a poem about you
In which you were someone else
but underneath, you were you
and no one knew it or saw it
but I did
but sometimes, I forget.
Forgetting made me bigger,
stronger, greater,
a creator: empty dreams.
Delusions.
You and your eyes and your smile
and your soul and your heart
and your breath and your laugh
were all.
Sometimes, I forget.
But then you appear
and my fingers itch
-urgent, now, now-
itch to grasp a pen,
make it scratch,scribble,scrawl,
watch ink run through
story lines on my palm,
create an art I cannot,
while I etch a shadow of you
on paper after frowning paper.

I always lie.
(They itch to reach out and touch you.)
But if you knew,
You would wish for far away.
(Stay.)

I wrote another poem about you.

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