You know how we do that?
Conjuring up “friends”
when we feel
what we want to say
will sound truer
from elsewhere:
Oh, I have a friend who used to…
I think I am one of them.
I mean I am one
of those “friends”
conjured up
by someone somewhere
using me as a proxy,
tentative self.
Like a test-drive vehicle.
If it works,
they make more;
if not,
they improve upon it.
Or simply give up.
No complaints: first drafts
cannot  be disowned easily.
They go
into air-conditioned
glass cases in museums,but only
if their author diesa memorable death.
Even when committedto the bin,there is no taking away – Iwas the seed, the kindthat wrestles gravity and rises,growing tentacles of truthgripping firmly both air and earth.I now have a life of my own.
Or, at least, Iwill be their shadow,long and unignorablewhen they are slanted awayfrom truth, and shrunkand free only when it shinesright over them.
I am out even on nightswhen the moon lets mefollow themor lead them into caverns of truths,where they drink and danceto songs and whiplashes,where they howl and cheer,yell and scream, and they don'tgive a fuck. 
That's when I love them most.That's when I leave them alone.And they, me.