The frustrated magician

My pen is the wand. My words are the magic. As I stroke my hand and paint out the thoughts in my head, each character gleams and every phrase winks at me. They do not say much but I can see your face being sketched by the words my pen pronounces. Page by page, the leaves of my notebook filled with my composed spells turns gracefully from one after another. I may cast the right spells but I wish I know, too, the alchemy of  bringing you to life, for you are only a mere illusion limited to what I can make out of the tricks in my head, magic of my words, and flicks of my pen.  I cry, sometimes, because I make a fool of myself for wanting you so bad. So I try to forget. Then I forget for quite some time. But I always end up coming back through the pages. And my entire memory of you freshens up: the graceful dance of each leaf from one after another, the spells that whisper the ultimate dream of my heart. My magic, again, begins to summon your spirit that warms my face and psyche. And I continue to dream once more, back to the first step of the cycle that never ends.

You are the perfect picture inside my head. The ink of my pen. The treasure of my heart. But you are the masterpiece I can't ever complete.