I put you on the stage where you feel comfortable not looking good, not sounding. Then I put you on the stage again where you decide to extract a vibrato from a place vibrations ought to be, deciding further that the people looking stageward yearn for you. And I believe you tell yourself another thing not one of us will bother to interpret. How could we check our work?
I put you on a stage so I can leave myself atrance, and I am not entranced when I look at the stage. Every so often I look at it, and tell myself pronouns are handy. Pronouns help us carry baggage. Pronouns are intact and quaint. Were you saying something?
I put you on a pedestal you made yourself, and I would vote for the probability that each time you use it, you project another builder and another. I would further say that you decide each of the builders lives for you and longs for you.
I put you on record so I can prove that I was here, when in fact I was not here at all. I was instead confirmed as present and accounted for in past tense, where I lived comfortably, rent-free. From that vantage point I looked from a white dock at the country of my heart that matches perfectly the very bluest of salt water mirroring the sky.
I put you on hold; I dazzle my learning with the scent of consequence to come. I plan the cold renewal of once blemished heart, considering a way to cradle what I am and how I used to love without an obstacle. What obstacle could stave off perfect love? The many numbers capable of being rounded to near selves begin to stagger me. I think that I will go lie down now that you're planted on this stage. I tell myself another thing you could not prove, even if you were to listen closely and define.