If I had grown up next door to you,
would I still fall asleep with your name on my lips,
and awake with it burning in my throat?
Would I still dream that I smelled your thousand-year-old dust
(heady, ambrosial),
and heard heavy volumes open and close like erudite butterflies?
Would I still think of God standing over our infinite moon-colored destinies,
and wonder if even one of my strands meets yours?
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In which my dreams are far more interesting than my reality.
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