You aren't real anyway so

I allow you to wander around

the back room of my thoughts, picking through them,

thumbing them over and paying

less-than value because they are dusty

and unused. "At least," 

I say to myself, "they will be appreciated"

even though you aren't real. I sigh

as you walk off with threads

of ideas balls of words tucked up

under your arms, feeling like you got a bargain. 

The door swings.

I go back to work and forget

You were ever (not) here.