Gatsby.

A creative spirit, a powerful soul, a heart of gold,
Perhaps you're the mirror, or what's inside.

You are the people's pedestal,
and I think you're what's resting on it.

You appear from the realm of what could be,
but can't, what should be, but isn't.

What is desired, secret, personal, and private,
but fulfilled, known, exposed, and public.

Truth, and all at the same time.
This is what you are.

You are the most genuine person I know,
and for a fleeting second, you are real-

This, I partially wish. But I fear
you'll turn to another, or turn another way.

And yet, the fact remains:
The reactions are automatic.

There is a twitch, a tingle,
a instantaneous, nervous spark.

There are thoughts cycling over,
each more frantic and faster than the last.

There is a candid glance, a silent remark
that contradicts the spoken truth.

There is a smile, loud, beaming, not meant.
Subtle, hidden, could not help it.

The most sincere is powered by the promise
that neither your eyes nor a mirror are present.

I may never get to the point,
or even say that there is a point to 'get'.

This requires vulnerability. Understanding.
Admitting that someone has permeated the cracks.

This requires concrete formation.
Words, which weaken the effect.

It is slightly easier to craft from the hand
than to form by the mouth.

But the point? The heart of the matter?
The underlying current?

The perfect truth that passes through the medium
and now, only 'attempts' to explain?

I am metaphorically running in simile circles.
I do not know. There is too much to know.