I dream of you often even still –
it constantly surprises my sense of security,
the one like a blanket that tucks my heart in at night
convinces it to keep its rhythm
and my lungs to remember oxygen.
Reading Keats lately is turning out to be
unbearable; that’s what this longing for
you has been from the beginning: it has felt
so entirely unbearable for many solstices of night,
I thought I’d have died
by now – and yet, I am still here
so it is only
unbearable by definition of mortality//biology.
I dream of you, still – but we never touch anymore,
not even in my unconscious hope. Your boyfriend
is beside you, now,
even in my dreams – but there is no doubt –
not there – that your soul does not split
I can’t imagine who would create a world
that we are not together; for, I know that we are meant
for one another in same way or the other
in any world any place.
I stare at the stars each night for sight of
your face and freckles glimmering in constellation – even still.
I fall asleep kissing pillow cases, thinking
of your waist wrapped in mine. We are divine –
my only hope is time, and lucid dreaming,
but even that is