In Which My Dreams Are Far More Interesting Than My Actual Life


Or, that thing in which I keep waking up with fragments of love poems in my head even though I am not in love or even, for that matter, actually dating anybody.


If I could only hold you for an hour

Or three, and feel the contours of your face

Against my hands, I would learn not to fear

The terror of my heart beating its drum

For the world to hear, or feel your heart

Beating against mine, chest to chest

In the tangle of the night.

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