Green Light District

Each and every time I think of you

My thoughts become a little more untrue

Until one day I'm sure you'll be

No more real than Jay Gatsby's Daisy.

Still, I was surprised to hear

That someone else's thoughts of you were fear

It seems that it is not only adoration

That can skew one's thoughts for its duration.

How strange that what is falsely full to me

Is to another the illusion of empty

I am uncertain which is worse

One is empty joy, but the other, empty hurt.