you've always been nothing but words
now, so is that promise you made
to become more, to be real.
i've always known, and been content,
with this part of you that holds no form,
until i hoped for more,
for that was when i gave you shape.
i envisioned a home for those beautiful words:
lips, that would speak them; and
eyes, clear, deep blue pools
into and through which i could look
to gaze upon a complicated surface.
with every passing day,
you drift further away,
your own words, and our spirits
fading, into the winds that travel north.
i feel no tears,
but loss, and disappointed—
and though you are not real,
those reactions to you are.
farewell, my love, my phantom;
i'll hurt no more by waiting for you.