On Unrequited Love, Pt. 3

Life is not romance,
Life is no novel,
Poetry is feeling,
A lens of reality.
These poems that root
In the feelings of you,
Are nothing.
Quips from Quasimodo to Esmerelda,
Caliban’s coveting of Miranda,
These bridges and stanzas
I engineer to ebb
Closer to you
Will always crumble
In the face of reality.
Your heart is not immaculate,
Your beauty not rapturous,
You are a human,
The same as I,
But forever out of reach.