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.