If I were given to feel fictive ideals,
I'd have thought I saw you smile;
I would imagine a world anew, where we two
dance with palms pressed atop our crumbled dreams.

We'd speak of the weather, whether we're together,
and act happy for a while;
Then we would wither away, left here to decay,
and unravel each other at the seams.

But only in my creation does sensation
give up such a pleasant figment;
In blistering awareness I'm teased with careless
gestures that mock who I am and will be.

My reward is only found in vision and sound,
pointless since I'm blind and silent;
If you could ever know what you've done to my soul,
it would be clear that you'll never love me.