A Wigwam for a Goose's Bridle

I’m embarrassed to admit how much I miss him. 
Embarrassed because he was counterfeit, 
a fraudulent copy of exactly what I wanted;
but just like that faux Chanel bag from Cambodia
he came with authenticity guarantees (I knew
the bag was a knock off, but still it took me days
to find the typo in the paperwork). For years
it would take people in: “I didn’t know
you could afford the real thing” and I’d always
let them in on my secret, because even for
insignificant things like a black evening bag,
lying is not something that comes easily to me,
but he, apparently, had more in common 
with the bag he bought me. He had me fooled,
and even friends who owned the real thing
fell for it under the dim lights of evening. 
And there were small things I noticed,
the tiniest defect in the stitching, or the way
silver peeked through a scratch in the golden clasp,
but will any bag stay unmarked 
once you start using it? It lasted well,
all things considered, and it’s only recently 
I pulled it from the cupboard for a night out, 
but the cheap polyurethane is moulting
like a cat shedding its winter coat, only 
what’s left behind is not smooth and shiny
but a fractured mosaic of cheap material 
decayed by time and use and light,
and you weren’t impressed when I said 
it was time for the bin, but babe it’s not salvageable.
This is not something that can be repaired. 
It’s not even in good enough nick for an op shop.
Maybe one day I’ll be able to afford the real thing.