I Can’t Title This What the Title Is

You came to me at night

while I was sleeping

in my dreams

and I pretended not to know you

but I knew you.

I knew the way you would

if you ever did

climb in bed

with me like I was precious

enough to you.

I knew the way you’d say it,

the way you say

everything,

so I can never tell if you’re real

or if you’re teasing.

I also knew that you would say it

in my ear

like a secret,

which it was, yours and mine

for concealing.

Since you’re you it was a riddle,

and it said,

less than a whisper,

“Come with me. We’ll go somewhere

so much better.

Nothing will look like here

or matter

unless it should;

unless it’s supposed to, and you know it.

Now or never.”

And you said it like a riddle

but also

the hunky protagonist you are,

the real hero of time

who’s in my head

all the time.

All the time.

The answer to your question

was a riddle

in itself

to think that for one second maybe

you’d be mine.

You’d be mine.

I closed my eyes tight

like when I pray

like when I cry

and I tried to write a fiction

in your gazes.

I wanted it to be real

more than I ever

wanted blood

running through my veins or warmth

in empty places.

And the instant that I thought it,

it was real,

for a second.

When I woke up, you were a riddle

and I lost you.

And now I’m left with all this feeling

of you

my dear

within me, and none of the pleasure

of having crossed you.

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