I dreamed of you again.
I would never be able to tell the difference:
What’s real, what’s beyond, what I only wished it was.
I would never be able to tell the slightest miscalculation:
interpretations, representations, the whole deal about admiration.
Sometimes I wish I could just forget.
We were placed miles and miles apart in this world,
our chances of meeting from slim to none,
and yet I still have laid my eyes on yours.
Once. Just once. And then forever in my sleep.
I should have closed my eyes.
I should have ignored the voice that told me your name.
What do you think about when you write?
Whose voice do you hear when you read?
I face a lifetime of trying to know who you are:
pictures, bios, stories and creations.
But why do I feel, if so, I would gladly live
over and over and over and then again?
Morning has broken; my eyes has once again opened.
Coffee. Bread. A little prayer. A deep breath.
My day would be spent again the way it always has been:
I wait for the night. I close my eyes. Again, of you, I dream.