They say that no matter how tangible a person is,
Once they are placed on paper they become a character.
I am afraid, my dear, that you have been reduced to a page.
In these past weeks, I have spent too many hours seeing you
Only in the blank spaces between smudged ink on worn down paper.
My fingers are stained black from the amount of ink I have spilt in your likeness.
I have filled hundreds of pages with an exaggerated version of your image.
I used to see the line between flesh and ink but
The differences have long since been blotted out.
All this to say that I have been disappointed one too many times.
It is no one’s fault but my own, for I have sculpted an image
Out of ink and paper that no person could ever resemble.
I have constructed your skeleton from paper mache,
Whispered your flesh, your voice, your spirit into existence.
I have placed you on a pedestal that is far too high
For you to climb and I fear you will only fall while trying.
And I am sorry, only not exactly.
Because I feel that we would have only ruined each other
And I have just saved us both.