A story exists. You know, the one where you fall in
upon that time),
the one where she comes
and occupies your bed.
Not a prince to test you with some silly shoe
but a femme in fancy dress
whose lust is all
So the story is a lie, the one you love
intangible. You still hold
yourself at night, hug your knees to your chest,
and sing that
of the unreal.
Some lies must be felt apart from dreams.
It is how you know (happily
after) you still live.