It's not fair that I remember all the details of the never happened, the never possible, and yet still be able to forget the features that made up the canvas of your face. I forget the angles that your jaw turns. I forger the pearliness of your teeth, the deepness of your pupils, and the temperature of your fingertips when they meet mine.
I don't want to have to think about a tan head full of dark hair, hands glued to the phone, strolling past the stairs oblivious to its surroundings. I don't want to have to think about everyone else, when I think about the comforts of your mind.
(There are too many of them around�you don't have to become one of them.)
I don't need to fall in love with an image�a concept�until it becomes hyper-real; unreal, until it becomes a reflected version of myself, made by me only for me. It's not fair that you don't get to be a part it.