There is a man in my waking dreams.
I see him when I close my eyes,
disappears when I open them.
He is no other man I’ve met before.
He has lean body,
one which I hug to sleep –
one which I smell when I wake up,
wrapped in his arms,
wrapped in our sheets.
He has well-cut hair:
long enough to hold
yet short to reveal his ears.
He has fair skin that I bathe
with scented soaps and gentle kisses.
One with the almost-perfect hands
that compliments mine;
hands that I hold
and fingers that tangle mine.
He is everything a pillow can be,
a handkerchief, a song,
a cup of coffee, a good book,
and everything I wish for a rainy day.
But this man is no other man
I’ve met before.
Everything seems perfect and real.
But everything about him is clouded
because I don’t know this man.
I haven’t met him yet.
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