Don't mind the lyrics

He wrote her in secret, no voice or face,

Just echoes of love in fiction's embrace.

She moved through words, soft as a sigh—

Was she the truth or just a lie?

She was all but a question in space—

Did she exist in any memory or place?

Was she fake or just a dream,

Or a moment he carved close to him?

She lives in the pages he once spared,

A lingering part of the stories he shared.

Poems, he said, came from his inspiration—

Or did they come from his admiration?