I wish “conversation” was a living thing.

A man, rather.

My man, more so.

I wish I could hold his hand and talk to him to my heart’s content.

I wish I could take him along on my weird trips, to fantasy-land.

I wish I knew the exact mix, of satire, of wit, of mystery and glitz.

But, no. He is not easily snared.

I wish I knew what I could give, and give and give.

To have him heal me, to hold me, to breathe into me, life.

I wish for him to be personified, just once, maybe for a night.

I wish to see how the world survives, in quietness, in despair, in solitary plight.

Because if I had him, and the words he weaves, there is no way I would let the sun rise.


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