You’re one of those
Middle-distance people in my life.
I could write short stories about you,
Wreathed about with all the fiction
Of assumption and just enough
Sandy truth to make it believable.
Nothing that ever cuts too close
To the bone of the real you,
Even if I laid all your bits out on the page
Like some gruesome medieval meat monger
Arranging the quivering heart of Man
His mind and soul and passionate illusions
Wares for market day ladies and dreamers.
Yes, I could write stories, filled with the
Internal monologues and struggles
Of a man who never quite set foot
Onto the firm grounds of reality.
I could write you as you wish to be
I could paint you as you fear you are.