My letters trace your elegance with ease.
The page cannot contain your splendent smile.
No sweeter voice could grace the gentle breeze
Of the unworthy worlds my pens defile.
Within, they value strength; without, distress.
Yet none can understand the way you think.
Though interest in romance you possess,
Your love does not exist in lines of ink.
My words embrace you now, yet I cannot
Because your touch gives only papercuts.
From my reality, I call to thought
But solid is the line dividing us.
And still, my grief continues to ascend
With knowledge that your story nears its end.