as quiet as a fire

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i don't want to write about you.
by writing about you, i'm turning you into something real – into something i can touch.
but you're not real; and you're too far for my fingers to embrace you. you are nothing but a small figment of my imagination – a creation of my lonely mind, searching for someone to keep it company.
you're not real; i'm the one who brought you to life and i can kill you just as fast. yet somehow, i can't help it. i can't seem to put an end to you, and for some reason, my words refuse to revolve around anything but you.
and my words could never be enough to describe the novels my books tell me about your eyes, or how the pages beg to touch your skin as soon as they see the light, or the way the pen between my fingers screams out your name so adoringly.
haven't you heard of a poem coming to life? i have – i've seen it. i've seen the way words dance around you graciously in hopes of getting a simple glimpse of you. i've seen the way rhymes follow you wherever you go, wishing they could ever compare to your beauty and grace – those that i've traced with my own fingertips in blood tinted ink.
i've heard songs crying out and complaining about you being too far, too high for their reach. no matter how long their melodies travelled, you always seemed to be a bit further, dancing to a rhythm only you possess.
a poem.
that's all you are –
a combination of words and letters forming a painting only i see,
and only i understand.

— please be real.