poetry for the poetic: 5

CVII

i am still
fiction,
you restrain
your lips
from moving
to word
my name,
i am unborn,
thoughtless
and careless,
i am
unreal
to you,
a fantasy
that you must
not explore,

but your fingers ache
with heavy burden,
the thought
of what
you could have written,
vented
in tender words
that adore me,
and us
entangled
in an embrace
between pages
of a book,
written in secret,
and meant
only for your eyes.