Left Without Preface

What do I say to you?
You bring me my self-tortured soul
Wrapped up in a Tiffany’s box
With a white satin sheet that
Covers your navy side.
But not mine.
Huh.

What can I be to you?
When you come twice
To such a coveted conclusion
And I don’t even come close…
Beginning to feel like
This is chasing pixies in the mist,
But what, for all we care, right?

Really, what more can I ask?
This is a Frankenstein
That I have created
And nurtured
To the point of marveling
With dismay
At the piteous monster that it is still becoming.

Hate you?
No.
Want you?
Not really.
Picturing those others
When you are believed to be in my head?
Undoubtedly.

Is there something off beam
With “you’ll do for now?”
Because the white horse has arrived sans rider
Only to tell me that the prince will be late…
Ultimately it will be him and not you,
But until then let’s say you
Get back on that sway-backed nag and take his place