Portrait Of An Unfinished Lady

Made of words I am.
When I was written, there was something,
a small thing left out.
A detail missing which makes me not
quite real. In their zeal, my Writer
gave me the ability to feel, however
something unidentifiable got left out
of the deal.

I was in a dream.
But when my dreamer woke up,
there was a part they forgot to tell.
An unimportant snippet,
as, after all, I was just a girl
from a dream
that began to unfurl
but left a piece behind.

I am Antoinette, L'infante, the incomplete,
the girl with the missing piece.
I watched the girl, the other one,
as she sat with the end of my puzzle,
sipping my drink,
I think she knew.
My gin, my essence, my sense,
all stolen in one shout to the bar.
I watched as half a girl
as she pretended to want you
even half as much
as me.