My Dreams are Untrue

I love you. But I don't. I wish I didn't have to love you. But then, I don't. If ever you find yourself wrongfully calling another by my name, know that it is I who thinks of you, even still. It's strange, isn't it, that I would do such a thing as to think of you. You, being a being so far away, like the sun on the horizon at sunset, yet shining so bright, as if to blind me. But still, when the day is done, one is to forget the sun, no matter how bright it was at last light. Perhaps you'll come back to me one day, as the sun faithfully does. And I dream of you, yes. I cannot sleep without first seeing images of you. Images of you and I, doing things we will never do. My dreams are untrue. Forgive me, for I have injured you... That is why you left, is it not? After all you gave me no reason. And I curse you for that. It was not your face which threw me into this girlish passion. The culprits instead were your words. Gentle. Easy. So Warm. But how quickly summer fades into winter. None of your words were true, though, were they? All lies. All ploys. All used to construct an efficient facade. But then why do I still hang on to each one? Feverishly, I still gather them up, only transparent memories now, and tuck them away for further examination, as a child would pretty stones. You have no love for me. This is not a thing that has become, but something that has always been. Always been true. Since the beginning of time perhaps. I regret you. Ah. But I really am no more than a plaything. A doll? My eyes, my lips, my hands, my heart. These are just the accessories You used to dress me up and tear me down. I'm sorry, you will not be forgiven.