Excerpt from a book I'll never write #15

I used to write about him every night. I called him all sort of things; the moon, fire, sea, storm, and book. Looking back at all my writings made me remember how much I used to adore him; his intelligence, his witty comebacks, his laughs. He was my metaphor, the reason why I started to write sad poems. I thought of him as someone who could be so many things. But now, I know better. He is only a boy, not more, not less. He still could be so many things, but I understans that he'd never be something I really need.