I watch her, I linger not,
For fear she might catch me.
Yet still, from afar, I do my best to drink her in.
My thoughts are entirely consumed of her.
She, my obsession - my mystery.
And in this mystery, she is a blank canvas-
A face, an aura upon which I begin to fill space
She sits by herself, and when in company seldom speaks.
So too do I.
Perhaps this is the root of my obsession.
Perhaps, despite my insistence towards the contrary,
This is the beginning of love.
But no.
For it is not for her.
Instead I am in love with my creation.
The girl is a muse and nothing more.
Then why am I so drawn to her?
Compelled, am I, to watch her.
I lust for her. Not her flesh, but her.
I am enchanted, and in my lust
Desire to know her.
But I fear what I find may not be my creation.
In fact, I know it.
Dare I sacrifice my fantasy for truth?
