I've Always Wanted To Write a Poem Called "This Poem Isn't About You."

How much do you think I write?  It's more.
I have an entire cast of characters,
A few more Fiery than the others,
From my interlude with a nameless hipster
To the immortal Little Belle the Impaler,
But the one wasn't about you; the other, neither.

They are just ideas.  People live more loudly,
Appealing in their thickness, softness, flexibility.
Ideas hibernate, alone and unloved in a crowded mind,
While people have the good fortune to die.

Okay, I admit it.  That poem may have been an idea of you.
I suppose I owe you an apology, and my idea, too.