[fin.]

I'm fed up with your "facts."
You sped up your act to keep pace
with my racing heart, but your
pretty face,
your gorgeous green eyes and
transparent lies that can't disguise
truth
won't carry you through,
won't pave your way any longer--
so ponder, as you're craving
the warmth of my arms and my hands,
that I could have saved you,
I could have made you
a god;
consider how I braved hell and high water
to bathe in mere moments of your
worthless presence,
your beautiful pretense.
I know I'm not her--
not the girl of your dreams, that
fantasy lover-nymph-goddess.
I never meant to be.
But think on this, as you're missing
my lips and the feel of my hips
and all those small pieces of bliss:
I'm much better than nothing.