Begging The Question

When I read all those poems of languishing, I begin to imagine they were written about me, by your many facets, your multiples frames of mind, in tiny deceits of tenacious manipulations.. I might even start to imagine that I am woman, and seducer and you, male and desirer, as decreed by nature- and the words used might imply that I made decisions, formed invisible territories, grown templates out of sentences and replies, or even by not answering And 'I' is such a minute though infinite concept, such an invisible construct that soon I begin to tremble, for fear of being thought of as some great 'something'- instead of as the feeble 'nothing' that I have always imagined myself to be And soon I run away again, and I see you retire to your corner out of the corner of my eye- as we sit staring, contemplating that which we think we will never have, but somehow, dreamlike- is the sensation we always possess it, nonetheless. Still, in my woebegone state, I am deserted again and again, in a prison made only of thoughts, so that nobody can file the bars or open the doors for me to come unto them. The key is a goblin, I have eaten it a thousand times, waiting for it to reappear again and human bones can't squeeze through the defenses, enough to join me, anymore than a phantom could steal my heart- or me be able to admit, that it has happened before and is happening now. But mostly, whether I am just a thought inside your mind, or have a separate sovereign existence inside myself- always begs the question..