Late last ditch effort

You're a fiction in my arms
a changeling story, rewritten again
each time you're in my hands
I believe I can write an end

I'm not unhappy
I may be lonely
but I dream of you
sick for what you felt for me

I dislike imagining you
your recollection
is so perfect but its difficult
because you live in my brain
the deceitful creature
will not banish you

You've always been my favorite what-if
a ghost of past temptation
each landscape better remembered
for the distance
unable to forget

I'd write new poems on your skin
given half a chance
but paper is a paltry substitute