there’s an imaginary man who lives in my bed,
a distillation of all that i’ve known.
he changes forms from time to time,
but he’s mine and mine alone.
his legs might be bowed, but they’re long and lean,
and his arm’s sweet muscles enfold me;
his hair might change color or disappear
for he’s from my own conjuring, you see.
some times i rearrange him
to keep the facets of those i chased,
so he melds, and grows, and changes
to incorporate all i embraced.
so i rarely if ever get bored with him,
a tweak to his face or body
gives me a new someone to adore,
one who lets me be free and naughty.
he keeps my home fires burning
so i’ve no need to go astray.
he satisfies my every need,
and i let him have his way.
he’s been around for ages,
long ago, i didn’t even notice him there.
for he was all about, in little evidences,
crushed butts, or a shirt on a chair.
some times he came, but he went again,
for he didn’t get to shine his light.
i was so busy trying to be myself
that i forgot he’d be back that night.
but there he was when i went up,
right there, tucked into my bed.
yes, it’s true sometimes he’s made of pillows,
but at others, he actually steps out of my head.
i’ve seen him both in the body,
and in the Spirit he walks within.
I know him well, and not at all;
i sure hope he comes again.
for then i will enfold him,
the Recognition finally realized,
and i’ll flesh him out to who he wants to be,
and he’ll live there, forever, in my eyes.
Graphic: Wayne Kral, Drawing