The secret to holding me


I love the you that isn’t here yet.
The anticipation of reality
and the adaptation to it that will come.
Because I want to love the real,
even if the dream is more comforting.
I like the you, that will be
over the you, my ego produces.

These wonderments amuse me
so stacked up, as they are,
with greediness.
Indulgences that are best left
unsatisfied.
Please be flawed.
You are more human this way.
More possible and more accessible.

My heart writes passages
that as a writer I am acutely aware
will need more realistic revision.
After all, I am an incomplete novel
myself.

 

 

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