We tell the world that we are lovers,
I feel that all this is just pretence,
Maybe the version of me in your heart,
Is not real but a mirage or an image,
Would I ever meet your image of mine,
Or pretend until you tried and tired of me,
Maybe one day I might fill into that,
Mould you have built of me in your mind,
Would that person who has been made,
Will still be the real me or a new character,
All this spiralling and pondering,
While my heart still jumps at your sight,
Maybe I have never experienced being loved,
And one cannot love themselves until they are loved.