Attempts at a cubist painting

I laid out
Everything that I have
On the table
Though my better sense
Told me not to
It is a game
I do tend to forget!
And mistake it sometimes
For the real thing
Cause it feels
As real as the blood
Rushing to my skin
As real as the stupid jump
That my heart makes
When your face lights up
While gazing at my face
And yet
Yet it is surreal
And as you fold neatly
The game
To be locked away
In one of those compartments
My world becomes
A world of cubist paintings
Made of a zillion little squares and triangles
Splintered across and beyond
My Picasso
Before you leave
For your real world
Can you decipher it for me?