Disclosure

This isn't a poem

The idea of you is something illusory, an ever present amalgamation of sentiments  

Of first times and overplayed memories and hypothetical situations in which  

I fantasize about what might have been if life were a perfectly designed set of circumstances

Tailored solely to the happiness of the individual experiencing it

It's ironic that my embellished image of a “you” is something you yourself could never admire

And that ever since I stopped letting that picture dictate my every action I’ve become free

Free to fill page after page in tribute to you, writing eulogies to a memory  

Long since passed, sacrificing time and peace of mind in exchange for the momentary  

Recreation of your being, yet it remains only that; a silhouette, abstract in essence

I fill this dark outline with my mind’s interpretation of what lies in between, yet with time

Comes inaccuracy, and the portrait of you my eyes once adorned has now become a false effigy

An effigy, nevertheless, I continue to revere to this day, but

I no longer know whether I was ever infatuated with your true essence, your existence in actuality, and lost it

Or if nostalgia has clouded my mind with a simulacrum of you, a sad substitution of reality, and I’ve lost it

The underlying connotations behind both of these scenarios, I imagine, would dismantle me

So in an act of self preservation, an attempt to maintain a sliver of sanity

The sentiments, memories, first times, situations, and fantasies, will all be stripped of value, and they

Along with this admission, and the effort required to compose it

Will mean nothing