Maybe I read too much
In my wilted time,
And crumble when I don’t find
You, in my pages.
Red eyes scour you,
Like you were written
In there somewhere
By my favourite author.
Your mere mention
Thrills me so,
That every face
Is the one I image.
I carve you with
My own ideas,
Paint you with my own colors,
And try to see you
Through my eyes,
And not what the writer had in mind.
I have a fever of pain
That goes insane
On seeing a medicine.
It’s not me if you ask,
Just my punctured heart
Riddled with scars,
From my past
That needs a balm.
I may fall in my own trap
And then weep for hours,
For the pain of not being there
In the book with you,
While you build your hedges.
Then I go back to my world to see,
Where it hurts again to be
As I curse my fate to find
That you were never really here.