I wish I were that book
that your glorious eyes greedily feast upon,
and you could drink me into your brain
one line at a time as though I were a TV image,
and you could contemplate
the things my body has done,
where my feet have trod,
sweet lies my lips have told,
ponder what we could do together.
We could live out our dreams,
for surely your own truth
outshines the fiction of another.