I like the thought of you, and that’s enough.
I know your name and face, of course, but all
The rest is only insubstantial stuff,
Though thoroughly delightful folderol.

I like the sound of you, and that is pleasant,
Although I like to listen while alone,
And open my enjoyment like a present
With none to disapprove or to condone.

While most exuberance I freely share,
This parasocial pleasure is for me-
Because it is a one-sided affair,
It’s nourished by and thrives in privacy.

Yours is a wondrous counterfeit to fill
With endless grist my ever-moving mill.