She told me she loved me, and I knew
this was a lie. But sometimes, in the time
between dusk and dawn, when I'm lonely
and tired of chain smoking by candle light,
I pretend
she was telling the truth. And she's not
going anywhere. She's stuck in the spaces
between worlds and words, lying naked at the ends
of galaxies and sentences. She's whispering words against
the back of my neck, where they remain
tattoo and brisk. More importantly, she's telling me
she loves me. But she isn't real, and moreover,
neither is her love. But still, when I'm lonely
I pretend.