You would tell me to cry.
You would hug me tight.
You would tuck me to bed.
You would do all things nice.
Yet,
I figured you are but my imagination

When you go your own way,
I try to run after you.
When you turn your head round,
I see your face, empty.
When you hold me close,
I figured it is yet my imagination again.

Sometimes, I wonder.
If you're as nice as that,
If you're as good as said,
If you're as real as it seems,
Why can't you be real?

Or perhaps, you are.
But, just,
Not to me,
Not for me.

It's better for me to wallow in my imagination.

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