You don't seem true enough to me, for me.
A pretense concealing a confusion.
You say "self," or "love,"
and that seems to satisfy you.  Not me.
I've had dreams with more to them, in them.
This poem is the point where you and I intersect,
our brief we, and though it isn't the least bit true,
it's truer than you.  I suspect that when I look away
you fall apart.  Just a brain, pretending to be a heart.