I think of warm fingers that are stronger than my own,
tracing my curves, when you come to mind.
And also hour long stretches of silence that begin with
“just hold me close, so I can listen to you breathe.”
You are compassion and emotional bruising and the
most complex piece of simplicity I’ve ever seen.
But I need your imperfections, darling,
just as badly as you crave life to be bigger than just the
here and now.
Oh, we are all tragedy and nonexistent perfection.
If, if…
(if only you were real.)