At 18 I made the mistake of telling you I had the heart of a poet.
That the way to my heart was through written word.
You only smiled and took it as a challenge.
The next two years were filled with both romantic and sensual gestures, in written  word.
I fell in love with the fact you were in love with me.
Well, if I have the heart of a poet you have the soul of a writer
and the world you created for us on paper, was better than any fantasy novel I have ever read.

At 20 I can still see your writings, declarations of love that you swore would last forever,
but I can no longer see myself as the heroine in your story.
I read your words and I see her living out my fantasy.
Do you write for her, as you did for me?
For her sake, I hope not.
So she doesn’t end up like me, reading and re-reading your words, trying to find the disaster and warning signs in your perfect world that you created for the two of us.
While you're busy becoming the writer of a different love story.