Hymns for the Bastards: Eight.

Nothing Gold Poetry.

I dream of you

The way children dream of monsters.

I imagine you as eyes that stare back at me through the darkness,

Even through I know it’s only streetlights

I feel the touch of your hands on me

Even though I know it’s only my sheets.

I feel your tongue on me

Even though I know it’s only the snow.

I dream of you

The way children dream of monsters,

But without the peace

of knowing that the monsters aren’t real.

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