In the quiet of my solitude, I craft castles from the fragments of my heart, knowing they will never shelter her. Each word I whisper into the void, each silent plea, is met with the echo of my own yearning.
Her laughter is the sun, vibrant and untouchable, while I am the night, longing for a dawn that will never come.

I gather the stars of my affection, weaving them into constellations that spell out her name, hoping she might look up and see. Yet, her gaze is fixed on distant horizons, places I cannot reach, people I cannot be.
My love is a river, flowing endlessly,
but her heart is a mountain, steadfast and unmoved by my ceaseless tide.

Every glance she spares me is a gift, a fleeting moment where I am bathed in her light. But as quickly as it comes, it fades, leaving me in shadows, clutching at the air where she once stood.
I am an artist, painting her presence in the colors of my dreams, but my canvas remains blank, for she is not mine to hold.

I can't make her love me, and this truth carves deep into the marrow of my being. My love is a quiet reverence, a solemn prayer that drifts into the expanse of what could never be. And so, I remain, a silent guardian of my unspoken affection, a poet of the unattainable, cherishing each moment she is near, even as she slips further away.

In this realm of unrequited love, I am both prisoner and poet, my heart a testament to the beauty of loving without return, an ode to the bittersweet dance of desire and despair.