If none of it is true, which perhaps may be
then I admit to what I've known all along: the only true part is me
and this world is merely a canvas for my hopes,
and fantasy.
I confess, it may not be you, though the blue of your eyes
is cool enough to touch: you are my sweet dream
and in dreams, I hold you as such,
and the way your shoulder smells when to it i press my cheek
weakens my knee, and makes it hard to speak,
and melts me to a puddle when i shiver in your car--
I love only my perceptions and I know not what you are.
O, I know not what you are, and I shall never know:
Yet this thought I've had does not sadden me, but makes me aware
You aren't only your cigarette perfume, nor your strange colored hair
But the sound of the highway and the springish air-
Very pretty, indeed! A pile of my own experiences, fairy-tale fair
In the warehouse building where you dwell--
If none of it is true, beauty,
then indeed, dear, damn it all to hell.
(for you are only mine and in this way I am only yours as well.)
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