Tonight, he'll make her beautiful
in the finest worry suits; all raw;
and susceptible.

Like Red Giants in the Southern skies,
he desires her. Not too strong,
not too weak.
It's somewhere in between.
Between the lines.

He wants her to be silent when she speaks,
yet loud when she's quiet.

He wants her to be different. Distinct.
Perhaps he'll make her the third gender.
A character that never occured
in his draft book.

It may sound odd, but
she already occupied his existence.
And now he can't tell whether all this time
she was a mere fictional thought,
or a real past projection.

Because he, himself, can no longer discern
the illusion of his
typewriter.