I'm in love with a boy
who seems like
he was plucked
straight from a book.
The way he makes me laugh,
how he plays guitar,
how his voice swings with the air.
I swear,
if I didn't know better
I'd say someone wrote him down
the words into his veins
and the sentences into his face.
But I know
this isn't so
because not even the greatest writer
could write him
into existence.
Not even the greatest writer
could write down
how his eyes are the colour of frozen lakes
or the lopsided smile on his face
or how he flows with music.
not a single writer
could write him
like he is fictional
because he stands before me,
more real than the sun on my skin
and I know
that a writer could not write him
because they would be missing
the way that I love him;
and that
is written into his skin
with my lips
and my fingertips.
Is chapter after chapter
of adventure
and music
and injuries.
Is an entire book
wrapped up in his arms.
A writer
could never write him
no matter how good they are
because they would never get him right.

The End

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