Marionette

but i’m a real boy
your Pinocchio
i’m not wood
i’m not stringed
  but for my voice
and the notes
  in my heart

i’m not dry
i’m still fresh
i’m young
(and it hurts)

i’m not a bunch of logs
your flames are not to rise
on my surface
(not again)
i will not be reduced
to ashes
by your passing

i’m not a puppet
–            a mimicry
i’m ink
–            a mystery

i’m a pantomime
of a hundred emotions
a day
sometimes even
all at once

i’m mosquito bites
and chain reactions
i’m the love for dogs
and cats and camels

i’m not dead trees
and naked branches
i’m the lies spread out
over my pages
over my freckles
but only a few can see them

my nose maintains
its unimpressive size
and shape
no matter how many a tale
i tell

i’m good-music
and joyous silence
i’m mute tears
all over my paleness

i’m an accompanying laughter
i’m an unassuming ear
an eager learner
and an unseen reacher

i’m all the conversations
that only came to pass
in my imagination

(and i’m sorry)
(maybe later)
(probably not)

i’m my singing eyes with kindness
my smiling cheeks with shyness
a doubtful dictionary
and an ineloquent encyclopaedia

i’m the only remainder
of how things used to be

and i do not miss you
but you’re missing
in my life now

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