Remember sitting in your kitchen
making up stories together
something about it felt
as intimate as sex.
I should know
we've done both
You have a line
from our song,
tattooed on your arm
We don't have a song
We just like the same music
Echoes of you
are in my every love poem.
Echoes of me
are in your novel.
We never wrote anything
while thinking of each other.
we are nothing if not
professionals of plausible deniability.
I'm just an old friend you write with.
I made you up.
Created us out of ink, loneliness
and longing like we’re a story
Where love is tragic but real
Where secrets make interesting subtext
The story in which we’re special enough together
between the lines
between the sheets
between the laughter and the warmth
for your vows to her
to not matter all that much.
Maybe I love the story
more than I love you?
What if I made you up?
What if I didn’t?
What if "the other woman"
has no right to believe
in such a heartbreakeningly
beautiful story,
because your wife is real
because you reaturning to her is real
What if I didn't make you up?
