Darling, it's been six or eleven or fifteen years,
depending on how you count our time together,
and still, when I dream, I dream of you.
Thankfully they're not the search-and-rescue
or lost-and-lamenting kind that young, uncertain
relationships anxiously birth, but the bright,
cartoonish sort that our delirious real-time living
creates. But even though I've loved you, Darling,
for six or eleven or fifteen years, depending on
how you measure time, would it surprise you to hear
that I dream of sailing with you on an emerald
sea in an striped umbrella-boat, our eyes like
cherried orbs reflecting the window-panes of a
lucid sky and our soft-paw hands and thighs are
pleasantly stuck together with sweet peach juice
and carbonated saliva; that the distant land of
mint-trees and julep-lakes is always on the horizon,
a new country, forever on the brink of discovery?
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