My Love Is A Lie

I have idealised inventions.
I have given great passion to false perceptions.
I was never very good at first impressions,
and I am impressed by standard politeness and the very basics of fair treatment.
I think I have been the bride of a daydream more times than I could ever count.
More and more,
I am mulling over former muses and choosing to deconstruct all that I decided they was (sorry, that is a truly appealing choice of words, but I’ve got a rhyme scheme to honour, in the most half arsed way imaginable).
I wanted to see if I was just kissing a collection of figments of my imagination,
and as it all turns out,
I was,
but,
what if I was happy?
Just for a little?
What if I was happy with my head in the clouds,
and my love in the arms of someone who never really existed?
I must insist, the ones I loved never disappointed me,
but I never loved the blank canvases that I painted and projected affection on.