You are not 

what I’ve made you to be— 

Darling, pray tell, 

what might that mean? 

Do I swear off

all flights 

of fancy,

ne’er to close my eyes,

nor to dream?

You are not 

what I’ve made you to be.

That much is clear–

but I cannot say

this changes a thing.

I will long–

I will not touch. 

Doe-eyed am I,

secure,

right here,

behind walls of ice.

Would I rather 

have a fantasy?

Not the clay, 

but the maker?

Not the form,

but the formless?

My love is here,

caged

on paper. 

So perfect.

Not human.

No edges, no need to be forgiven.

You are not

what I’ve made you to be.

But darling— it was never about you,

only about me.