I Could Weave Worlds

I could tell her so many stories. I could take her by the hand and lead her down so many roads to places she’d never seen before, where I could build for her great towers and cities; each full of people with so many tales of their own to tell.

I could make new worlds for her, worlds that could only exist inside the words I weaved around her. I could tell her about places that existed, places that never existed and times that were yet to be.

I could weave worlds and I could pull people fully-formed from the air as we sat each night in front of her fire.

I could tell her everything she wanted to hear.

Except….

I could not tell her of the lover she wanted to meet. I could not tell her how one day, one ordinary day; she would meet the one she longed for; the one who would take this broken world she lived in and make it whole for her. I could describe anything, real or unseen, for her and make it all seem so real.

I could tell her stories about everything, except her one true love because I knew from the way she looked at me, he was not me.