The existence of an idea,
A love that will never be,
Decided on by the owners of their hearts.
A nonexistent time that will never come to pass
But exists to bring comfort
To its downtrodden creator.
A false memory of happier times.
To what do we assign the value in a memory?
validity or it’s significance?
The feeling of reality
Means nothing really to me.
For our truth exists
Regardless of what lies within this
Life of hardship and pain
Where to want is a part insane,
For to never have is a shame,
And to expect is to be fooled.
But to create,
As a symptom of the hope we instantiate,
Within our minds
within our world
And to know the difference
Means there is none.
And your love exists in this world
Without ever having taken place.