The Idea of You

I miss your laugh.

I miss your taste.

I miss your touch.

I miss your face.

I saw the red flags—

But still I found.

When you called me "baby,"

my heart would pound.

But none of it was real,

each fact, a disguise—

you blurred the truth

by admitting the lies.

You were a story

I wanted to write.

Like a moth gravitating

towards your light.

I wanted the dream,

the promise, the feel.

You say “I love you”

like it's no big deal.

Hands, a Harley,

a pink sky above—

intimacy offered

but not out of love.

You play the game beautifully

then call me your friend.

Confusing, consuming

With the texts you’d send.

I heard every word.

You were crystal clear.

You said what you knew

I wanted to hear.

Maybe I'm foolish

for wanting to be

finally chosen—

To matter. To see.

But it isn't real.

A snack for your pride.

And I fell for a version

you keep deep inside.

I miss your laugh.

I miss your taste.

I miss your touch.

I miss your face.

I'm not in love

with the person you are—

just the idea,

a distant star.