You were never a person. Sure, I always realized that there must be blood in your fingertips as they played sweet keyboard serenades. I also knew that the sound of your breath must have air coming from your lungs; your beating chest must have a heart in there keeping pace. Your cock too: very real. Hard and sticky; a beautiful architectural structure built with text and fantasy. You were, to me, pathology, a mirage, a memory : a hollowness where my cunt and I could find some rest. But you were never a person. People can forget about people, they do it all the time.