Dream Again

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.

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