You are the ink stains on my fingers
and the light pressure of my pen on the paper.
You are the pieces of a story that I’m trying to write; painstakingly collecting, and plucking them from your shadow.
You tell everyone tales about your wonderful adventures, amuse them with pictures of you spinning around in an empty room.
They know what your favorite number is, what makes you laugh and the precise shade of blush on your cheeks.
but sometimes I wonder, does anyone really know you at all?