Did he create a skin for me? One that clung so closely to the joints that every knee jerk convinced him of the character I momentarily and involuntarily inhabited. Was I but a pellucid recreation, a passing silhouette of the past? Was I but a viable body for delicate, faery perfection? An apparition from a dream coaxed and coerced into the frames of actuality? Or was I merely good company? A friend for a day, a heroine out of boredom, a distraction from the acrid taste of loneliness.
Who can determine reality? Who would want to? There is no magic here.


One thought on “MAKE BELIEVE

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