I prefer the you that I made up.
I prefer the you that was kind, with a soft sparkle in your eye, a gentle authority in your step.
I prefer the you that charmed me right from the start, that made me feel charming too.
I prefer the you that I laughed with, easily and often.
I prefer the you that made me feel at once safe and secure, held in your gaze.
I prefer the you that made time stand still.
I even prefer the you that broke my heart, because the you that broke it was someone worthy of the break.
The real you, I don’t know what to do with.
The real you is cold and disappointing, sad and shallow.
The real you is careless with my heart, careless with the hearts of others.
When I dream, we’re effortless. We just have to be, and it’s enough. We just have to be, and it’s everything.
But the real you couldn’t care less about my dreams.
Was the you that I made up ever really you? Or were you just a figment of my overactive imagination?
If you exist solely in the world of make believe, then I’d rather exist there, too.
Dreaming you up all over again.
Because I prefer the you that I made up.