Dream Girl

I wonder what it would feel like,

with a lover's heart beating against mine,

the natural sweetness of the oils in her hair,

her hand, perhaps with one scar or another

and chipped nail paint--touching my cheek,

and her breath alive and endearing

with warm air, petite lungs breathing easily,

and maybe with a reflexive glance upward to me

flashing brilliantly beautiful

in a brief moment of thoughtlessness where the reality is

she's surrendered her very being

without intending to and without regret,

for she feels safe enough not to hold her heart

in her own hands, and I safe enough

to let her hold mine, and I tell her

that I've known no greater joy than to give her

everything I am.


It must be so much more beautiful

than wrapping my fingers around the hand of a fantasy,

which in my desperate grip crumples

like the paper on which I drafted


her every perfect detail.

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