I try to get you out of my head as I read the novel I am holding in my hand. What is about the feel of your hand, the brightness of your smile, the scent that wafts off of you so naturally? I remember you more now, the details of your sharp jaw clearer and your eyes so deep-set. I sketch you so clearly as I fill you in with the colours of reality. You resonate in me like the words of a novel, the words of a song. Why do you do this?
Sometimes I long for the nearness of you, the stately presence you command as you walk in. Nothing can get me the way you do, but of course everything else you don’t know about. You don’t feel the frustration, the slight urgency in my voice when I say I need you. Is it possible to fall in love with the words I write about you? It’s not a matter of vanity. I just… The pain is easier to take. But oh, you held your hand out too late.