To Rose [not your real name – but then when was it ever?]

You were someone I invented 

after I met you:

someone I set up on that plays

too high, and way too

full of whys.

And your ability to divine 

the me 

that is me –

before I myself know 

myself true – continually bemuses

me.

You are so clam clever

and I am so damn closed to all

those eventualities

you’ve meant for me.

And still I dream of your arms and

your hands and 

your commanding voice,

and your way of toying 

with my thoughts and guilty oughts,

and the games you wit – and 

your twat, 

for God’s sake (or 

at least how I have 

imagined 

it) – and so still I dream

even when nothing I have touched:

still I dream 

of beautiful rose, unclothed.

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