someone’s thinking of me right now
but it’s not me
it’s the costume
the wax mask
the placeholder

white noise between our brains
fingers tapping glass that won’t break
maybe if you press hard enough
you’ll touch the outline of me
but not the marrow

you make up my voice
invent my pauses
assign meaning to the tilt of my head
I’m a character in your private mythology
and I don’t know the script

half-formed versions of me
spill out of you
sketches torn from the spine of a notebook
edges curled
wrong lines inked in permanent

stop thinking I’m the thing you built
and then
keep thinking of me anyway