I don’t really know you, not really, not really at all.
I am enamoured with the idea of you.
With the idea of what you could be.
How silly that seems.
Even to me.
There isn’t any real reason for me to want you the way I do.
I am puzzled by the irrationality of it all.
Of this longing for a man who doesn’t really exist,
outside my head.
But the idea of you, of what you could be. Oh!
Now that is what’s seducing me.
And I can’t seem to lose this feeling,
Of being yours.
Though I don’t even think you want me, really want me at all.
But even that doesn’t seem to matter as much as I know it should.
Even that smarts less than it ought to.
I think you’re just enamoured with the idea of me.
With the idea of what I could be.
Or maybe that’s fantasy and you're not even that.
I know I am not your type at all, I can see that from a million miles away.
Perhaps I am just a silly little girl, with silly little romantic ideas.
Yes that, I know it’s that.
(Can it even be called romantic when it isn’t at all about love, when it’s about power and pain and sacrifice and desire).
How silly it seems.
Even to me.
The things I want to give.
The words I want to say.
That I want you to see me, really see me.
That I want nowhere to hide.
That I can’t stop thinking about you.
Of my idea of you.
Of what you could be,
Of what I could be for you.
However fleeting, however transitory.
That I would give all that I could,
For that.
The idea of you.
