it's almost Sunday
and the fan is spinning,
casting dizzy shadows on the wall.
you are sleeping soundly,
dreaming of your promises
while I break the silence only
to remind myself I'm real.
this empty weight bench,
those broken boxes are no testament
that I exist in your world.
I am an invisible magic
that turns soiled laundry fresh
and makes crusty dishes shine.
you laugh when I wonder aloud
how it was that you lived
before you'd ever met me.
but maybe I have always been here,
an invention of your memory,
only now am I aware of drifting
through your lonely consciousness,
being everything that you could imagine to desire.
my past is fabrication; I am here
to fill the void I thought myself to have.
you control me without words,
just by thinking it is done,
and I return to rest beside you
in the dreamer's land.
I love you as you love yourself;
you give me every reason to believe
that as an apparition
I am more than just myself.