Am I your Gatsby?

Or am I just Gatsby; by himself

without his own flowering bud.

You’re still my Daisy to admire.

But yet still separated, by what bay?

 

Where is my own enchanted object?

 

For I fall in love too easy

as what might take your Tom years,

will take me just days.

Or sometimes hours.

And only seconds, once.

 

So it never truly ends.

 

Your smile lightens rooms,

and your laugh, a sweet airy sound.

Eyes bright and full of wonder.

Your voice innocent,

but still sultry to my ears

 

Beauty in body and soul

 

I’m afraid though.

For my flaw Fitzgerald saw,

and wrote about in the form

of a man too foolish to fall

in love with his own idea.

 

A lie crafted from this life we live.

 

Do I want you?

Or what you represent for me,

a stepping stone?

A hope for the future?

Or do I actually love you…

Or do I actually love you.

 

I don't know.

I don't think I'm ready.

I think I’m too scared to ask

what do you think of about all this?

What may your answer be, what words

could fall from your graceful lips

that cause me to be such a coward.

 

Truly, you are an enchanted dream.