Yet even the mere idea of you
Continues to crave attention,
Running around my mind
Like a spoilt child,
Demanding my imagination
Come play with it.
But most when it's hurt,
It's hard to ignore;
Tears my heart to see it
Sitting in a corner,
Down with self-hate,
And needing nothing more
Than to be picked up and held.
There's the rub: holding on nothing
But empty thoughts
Is a mental flirt,
Your smile looking back,
Basking in flattery,
Is gone in a puff
As my arms reach for you.
But all this time you're held there,
That fragile notion of you
Suspended safely
In this web of my imagining.
