my fantasy lover is writing me a letter from someplace not-too-far so he can get back tonight just after dark and the wind will be brisk for august the sky will be purple more so than usual for this hour of night every day his mind envelopes another color i haven’t seen before and he spends all morning trying to explain it in fragmented english
does it disgust you how vividly i imagine him every day another body another pigment a different kind of sigh under his breath the thing i love about him most is i will never meet him and his face will always be a composite of past and future lovers but i know it’s real i love him i love him i love him i’ll love him until the idea of him dies and is buried in a jar in the recesses of my mind ultimately a slave to my manic sensibilities
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