My anonymous storybook

I’ve found my object of limerence,

it burns through me with no pretense.

Day and night it haunts my brain,

yet it refuses to even know my name.

My head’s wrapped in a restless haze,

a ghost adrift in empty praise.

I think I’m reduced to tears at last,

by a story where I'm only cast.

It loves the idea of me, not my soul;

it wants the part, but not the whole.

Just an anonymous dream that I chase,

but never the reality I’ll embrace.