I unhand you
in a “moment of weakness,”
overcome with the backlit glass
that’s Ibiza-gorgeous
in a long, intoxicated kind of way,
palm trees on the coast,
the whole coast in a glitz of cubic zirconia, 
bubble burst in its splendid
caricature of romantic life. 
That is, my life.
Convince me
of yourself
and I’ll believe anything. A face powdered slightly,
retrieved like a receipt from a clerk. Is it you?
The answer is obvious.
I am
your clerk. But
I am also
your précis.