Ah, but do you see it? That shimmering illusion on the horizon—
the one that whispers your name with such tenderness,
the one whose eyes reflect a love you have longed for.
You walk toward it, drawn by its warmth,
but the closer you get, the farther it drifts away.

Yet it smiles at you, doesn’t it?
It gives you what you crave—a reflection of your desire,
a love that mirrors your deepest need.
But what is a reflection, if not a lie?
What is a mirage, if not a cruel joke played on the desperate?

You see it, don’t you?
That figure on the horizon,
just beyond reach,
whose eyes hold a promise that was never spoken.

But what is a promise from a mirage?
It does not speak; it only reflects.
It gives you back your own longing,
wrapped in the illusion of tenderness,
as if love could be born from desire alone.

And so, you chase it.
You stretch out your hands,
willing it to be real,
even as the sun scorches the illusion to dust.
But still, it lingers—in your mind,
in your dreams, in that quiet space
where hope and madness whisper to one another.

Ah, but here is the cruelest truth—
the mirage does not vanish.
No, it stays.
It haunts you, not as a memory,
but as a question that gnaws at your soul:
Was it ever real?
Or did I only love the shadow of my own yearning?

And yet—you loved it.
A love that was never returned,
and perhaps never existed.
But tell me, which is worse—
to be loved by a lie,
or to walk this world unloved by truth?