In Love With An Image

I am in love with an image,
a mirage.
It's you.
But, it's not you.
It is the idea of you.

Slow dancing,
holding you close,
your fragrant body,
and silky hair.
It seems almost possible,
despite the fact
it's truly impossible,
now.

I am in love with an image,
a mirage.
It's you.
But, it's not you.
It is the memory of you.

We talked on the phone,
almost everyday,
endlessly.
It was small-talk,
it was nothing,
but it was something.
After all, you mentioned
that opening question
that I always asked you, every time.
And, I was surprised,
years later, when you urged,
"Aren't you going to ask me...
how's the weather?"
You remembered,
my dopey, small-talk words,
that could easily have been
forgotten.

I am in love with an image,
a mirage.
It's you.
But, it's not you.
It is the reflection of you.

In the end,
I was too shy
and you were too busy
so we missed
the arrow's strike.
Instead,
for me,
it only grazed,
bounced off,
the surface.
But it still scarred my skin.
And,
knowing what could have been,
left a wound,
inside me,
that's never really healed.