Emerald dreams

His shirt smells like him, or so I imagine.  Wrong, so wrong for me to crave this still-my dirty little secret folded neatly on my closet shelf.  Every night I tuck myself into bed, silk pajamas and chocolate; waiting for the inevitable tossing and turning until I pad over to the closet and slip on the worn cotton. 
The way he looked at me, deep into my eyes, searching my soul.  I thought, for a moment, that everything was true and right and that somehow the world would resolve itself around the two of us.  And then, hours later, of course there was a Secret, one last big Lie.  And so, cry yourself to sleep little girl, you're so used to it.
Hours pass, minutes and days and I'm not mad except that I'm supposed to be.  I still lvoe or love, or whatever it's supposed to be called. And now he is good to me, and kind to me, and I am confused but happy and I'm not supposed to let him make me happy anymore. 
And then, god damn it, I pull a plush blue canine out of a box, my own velveteen rabbit.  I stop being confused and angry and hurt; and in the hours too late or too early to count, I let myself love him.