How does being creative about you feel?

It hurts.
I write, in my mind, about your hurts.
I write, in my mind, about dancing with you,
hugging you,
caressing you.
I write, in my mind, about sharing your pain.
I write, in my mind, to remove the pain caused by past lovers, men who were not worthy of your spark, grace, fire, but who were content to be gathered around the warmth of your energetic flames.
I write, in my mind, about how I know how to start a fire with just one match, or one spark, or one hopeful, glowing ember.
I write, in my mind, how I have always tended fires and kept them alive and radiant, even when others could or would not.
I write, in my mind, about how I wish I had one-tenth the chance those men had to do things you are passionate about, about how they failed you so miserably, about how they nearly doused your flames, about how I wouldn’t, but would instead ignite and restore and fan the flames.
I write, in my mind, about how you inspire me.
About how I enjoy being with you.
About how you move me unexpectedly, like a warm evening breeze on a previously still and silent lake suddenly moves a small, becalmed sailboat.
And, knowing you are not here, writing about you, sometimes, hurts.