You ask for the dream
like a child
set on ice-cream
at a Saturday circus

You yearn for
old calendars, broken clocks
and promise to keep
your corner clear of webs

You want to retell
your famous life-story
to poets and editors:
recorders of time

But most of all
you ache inside
for the touch of
someone else

nestled close
beside you
breath warm
along your hair

dark wishes
in the still nights
of your room

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