It hurts to know he is not real.
That his fingers could never intertwine with mine on a calm Sunday morning.
That he could not hold me in his arms as he read lines from a leather-bound journal
on a hazy New York evening.
He can only live on the endless papers my ink bleeds on.
Noting every detail of his smile after a sip of bitter coffee or his rosy cheeks after passionate words.
But I could never piece him whole,
as a mortal could never dare embody every feature I pored over for hours,
perfecting every imperfection I deem poetic.
Shall I dream of him standing across a field of hay,
professing his love as they do in an Austen novel?
Or looking up to a stone balcony in the midst of night and lacing the air with literature?
He is within my very grasp,
But a universe away, tucked in the depths of my mind.
He lives a life I dare to dream,
And journeys I long to embark on.
His life, though breathed on a page, is filled with adventure and hope.
While the life I call my own consists of stale coffee and wistful glances out of a stained window that overlooks a world I deem too daunting to explore
He tells me every so often, “Write your own story.”
But how am I to fulfill that when the life I call my own is embedded into his,
when the life I dream to live is not within this morbid reality, but in his world,
where the impossible is reached,
where evils are conquered,
and where I could feel his fingers intertwined with mine
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