The pages, the words that would be written, I lived them every day.
They were written; But instead of existing on empty pages,
They were written in me; By you.
It turns out you had created me;
Out of your imagination.
You created me,
to always love you
Of course;
What else would you want from your creation?
Except to love you forever;
to have it long for you always;
For it never to exist far away from you.
I wonder if you knew how good an author you are,
If you realise your power of invention;
how your invention still takes small steps in the distance,
to the beat of your tune.