I see your fingers, delicately curved around her neck,
Your face intentingly staring at shadows only you can see.
Whether playing with swords or fists or feelings or words,
I see you were not the one to play with me.

I played myself, lost in loves intruiging realm
But was it love of him?
Maybe. Or love of self

I saw in him what I wished to see in me,
Determination and calm, eloquence through unease.
I saw loving yet firm hands
Unspoken care for the ones he loved.

But I never saw the beauty,
Never the emotion,
Never the secrets or times of fear or devotion.
Never who he truly was...
But rather... who I imagined him to be.

---

I miss you so, but more than that,
Almost selfishly,
I miss then idea of who you were. Who you were to me.
Music, quiet, humor and intelligence
Not to mention, maturity, strength, and dilligence.
You just had to go add poetry.

But that was simply my idea
Of who you were to me.
Not the real person
The man you are, the man you were meant to be.