A year later

A year later,
you strode back into my dreams, the way
I wished you would into my life:
all goddamn swagger, taking up
more space than you deserved

Since you showed up in my head, surely
you are but grist
to my verbose mill; a sketch to be
redrawn in possession of every flaw
a man could ever have. A dull testament to my superiority
my humanity
my great escape

I ought to adorn my villains with your nose
my loverats your hair
my cowards your speedy departure
I ought to rewrite you into
kill you carelessly on page two
walk you past a heroine, noting only
your uneven teeth, and then
simply failing to mention you
ever again

But I’m not the author of my dreams.
In them, it seems you will forever be exactly
as you are:
an inch my heart mistook
for a mile.


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