And he told me I was more than just an object-
But I was just an idea.
Actions taught me of my own illusions.
And all my reincarnations were ghosts of what never was.
I may not have been an object,
But set on the shelf and seen right through.
A holding bank for what I owed, never knowing how it came to pass.
And he told me I was loved-
But we never defined love.
And proof was hard to come by, I forgot to ask the price of admission.
I was paying for a subscription that wasn't used.
Bruised, barely dodging what couldn't be seen.
I may have been loved,
Who can say?
And he told me he would care-
I doubt that I would even question that.
Perhaps the sound of a voice on the air,
Demands of daily doses of addiction.
Demanding a withdrawal from that investment, and left wanting:
I could say nothing, turn my head and hold out what he's asking for,
Yet it never felt enough.
So maybe he cared,
I would never guess he didn't.
But we never made clear what care stood for.
