Sweet, Foolish Anonymous

I take your dear empty face in pallid hand, lean in and whisper that which I hate. The secret truth I know, yet fight. Heart breaking is my truth, which in the end cannot be escaped. My lips so close they give dry kisses as I softly speak:
Deep as the ocean but void of all life.
Soulful as an African chant creating great sadness and painful longing.
Emotions that shine as striking as shards of glass ~ every bit as cold and fatal as light reflecting and attractive.
Words, which are wet with sparkles the way dark eyes are ~ glittering blackness too sinister to be something kind, too beautiful to be anything ghastly. Words that draw them in ~ enchanting, seducing, entrapping. Spellbinding words with no meat, no essence, no actual power ~ paper-thin and a great deal more insubstantial. Words thrown up into the air like a fire’s embers and smoke curling, crackling along with the witches curse. I can use them as paints and make with them a lovely world; I can dance them as if they were puppets and create a wonderful story. This gift of prose is my cross for as I can give you the sight and touch of a succulent peach, its soft velvet skin tearing to reveal its sugary torn flesh, take one bite and you, as every other, will find there is no excess of juices pouring down your throat, no taste at all ~ nothing here is real.

The truth: I am not real.

Should I find the one who will mean everything, the deserving love who will bring back life with her kiss, who will deliver me to heaven again and again ~ dear God, should I finally have that girl it will be I who is undeserving, my words which will never be what they need to be.