Story

I like the idea of you. 

The novelty of pressing you between my pores. 

Like a little balm of love and relief. 

But you are not mine.

Nor can you ever be. 

You are your own being, 

Austere and aloof, 

Heedless of my existence. 

There is nothing in our love 

That could not be fiction. 

You are the words, 

Black upon the page. 

I am no more than a reader, 

Hopeful of a happy ending.