There you are, mocking me again and again. Nothing more than a fantasy—a one-sided, ill-fated delusion I tell myself before bed, like a fairy tale. The warmth of your skin, the taste of your kiss, the sound of your heartbeat—they are all just my imagination, and poor versions at that. I could never envision your true self fully, and for that, I am sad. Because if you are to be dreamt of, it should be as you are and not how I wish you to be.
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