There's a poem by Edmund Spenser that reminds me of you.
King Arthur searches for his love, his Gloriana, his Faerie Queen.
Until this day the poem remains unfinished,
The recurrent image of the lover, shattered.
She's an empty vessel, a silhouette that propels the story,
Always at the center, and somehow void of meaning.
It's easy to desire Gloriana since there's a vagueness to her.
Take what we want, no cares about the rest of her.
Her absence is enough to ignite desire, we don't care to see her,
For the possibility of her presence suffocates all hope.
She's as meaningful as we make her,
And her meaning derives solely from emptiness.
Lacking signification, Gloriana makes her presence known.
She's all you ever wanted; that is, nothing.
All you ever sought; that is, fulfillment.
Tenuous, at best, she reminds me of you.
So, let's pretend the reader needs further explanation,
As if we don't know where this story is headed.
Let's fill this space with words and call it meaning.
Let's patch up this gunshot wound and call it closure.
If I sound like the victim, forgive me, that is not my intent,
I take responsibility for this fruitless journey.
You offered nothing, and I desired you more.
Gave me just enough for my imagination to run wild,
A trace was all I needed to make you into something of substance.
King Arthur never found his Gloriana, the story was never about her;
This was never about you either, yet here we are.
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