Portrait of a Classy Lady

All of this empirical evidence gathering has led me to believe that I exist.

I am skeptical as to whether or not she does to, but that would mean that I

am alone in solipsistic universe. I hate being alone; it freaks me out, but

this philosophy makes too much sense for me to just abandon it

for some company.

If I seem a little detached, it's only because I'm trying to figure it all out;

am I really grabbing at her with my claws or are my five senses

untrustworthy?

I can sometimes

feel the colors,

see the sounds

of a synesthetic specter

who is loosely based

on visions and on

hallucinations.

What does that make her?

She is my mere fiction,

but I think the Woody Allen poodle

mistakes her for mother;

She's something else entirely.

Neurotic Alfie dog burrows

into her arm when frightened;

bitch barking bitch

can't help yelping.

She shares my interests in

glistening new wave, in

Bowie, in

women.

And we dance,

but I swear that when I run my fingers sloppily through her hair, I am not hitting on her.

I swear that the unflattering faces we do from across the room are just expressions of our

platonic love;

I guess we're both just trying to write some

gay ass poetry.