You are not a person—
you are a *phenomenon*,
a supernova dressed in human skin,
too bright for my mortal hands to hold.
I know the rules:
you belong to the stage,
to the screaming crowd,
to the cameras that love you
better than I ever could.
(But in my quietest hours,
I unspool the fantasy:
*us*, in a world without spotlights—
where your laughter is *mine* to keep,
not a soundbite for millions.)
The universe is cruel
to make you *real* but *untouchable*,
to let me love you
in a language you'll never hear.
So I whisper to the void:
*"In another life,
let me be the one
who knows the weight of your voice
when it's tired,
the shape of your name
when it's not a brand,
the quiet of your heart
when the music stops."*
Until then,
I am just another shadow
in your golden light—
aching, endless,
and *so terribly human*.