Your hands are delicate, precise
in their control.  I trust that you
should have the hang of things by now.
On stage, or off, backstage, or not,
I'm made into the spectacle.
As long as you and I are seen
we are a sickly sort of act:
a marionette who needs no strings
yet still is bound as though he draws
no breath, nor beats no drum heartbeat.

You paint my face the way you'd like
for it to look.  A dash of black
around the eyes, with flesh so pale,
a hint of rose about the cheek
suggesting life in need of no
brushstrokes to be mortality
in truth.  But you always apply
the paint, and you always do try
to smooth it on so carefully.
No one will know that you are no

artist, that I only allow
you your charade.  It's all you have,
and though you use me for your games,
your shows, to dance and entertain,
we know the strings are treach'rous things
that bind the two of us -- both ways.
Dualities like this are dreams
come true.  I would not wish to be
anywhere but with you, my love,
you are the only thing I know.