As I Wrote The Words As I wrote the words that created you. A character of my own mind, I felt love, a proud feeling that spread through my chest, your deep hazel eyes, your bright smile, your auburn hair. In my eyes, you were perfection. As I wrote the words, I began a personality, brave, intelligent. Almost perfect. The feeling turned to that of love. Though you were just words in a page, it was more to me. As I wrote the words, you spoke, your voice deep, harmonious and angelic. You were almost perfect. "Please. Don't continue me. I'm not perfect." I did not write those words. "I love you, more than you know, you created me, you gave me #life from nothing more than a fluctuation of words that bonded together to give me a face, a heartbeat, a breath. It gave me #life. And I cannot thank you enough, but I am not meant to be." He spoke, each letter darker than the ink I used to write him into existence. "But, my love, you are wrong. Everyone deserves a chance. Perfection is not a requirement, you are perfect in the eye of one, maybe you are perfect in the eye of another. I do wish you were more than letters written across a page, you would be so much more." I had to show him how much he meant to me. As I wrote the words, I gave her #life, her Crimson hair fell as if it were from an Autumn breeze, her eyes as green as the summer's grass. She was everything I'm not. As I wrote the words, she took his hand, she told him of a #life they could see together, a #life that a mere author could never establish with him. She gave him a true purpose. As I placed my pen down, I saw it happen, the final words he would ever say to me begin to form, my blue eyes clouded as I read the sentence. "Thank you. For a #life we could've had."
