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February 19, 2006

I think I can see a face
with two perfect eyes,
momentarily,
as I forget to make my brain obey.

I won't let it take me,
I won't let my disobediant mind
open to the world I designed
back when I received no love.

But contrarily, I do let it come.

The familiar sting of thousands of days
when I squeezed into that fantasy
again brings me into ecstatic joy,
where imaginary and real
are just a confused mess.

I find him there,
understanding everything about me,
answering my needs with perfect timing.
I dream of caresses and kisses
that are free from the dirt,
the pain and the ruination so common
in my experience of love.

It is a danger to believe,
to wander so far into the dream.
The picture of this unknown man
tends to morph before me
into anyone I want it to be,
and perfectly, he tells me,
"I'll be whoever you want me to be."

I'll wake from the dream later,
and fall into the duty of dirt lines
in the tubs, in the toilets,
around the baseboards,
and around my own mind.

That world is waiting for me,
and he's there, singing everything
in perfect pitch and perfect expression
just waiting for me to give back in...