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.

TMK 30jan2010