I dream of a boy
who will surround me
with poetry.

This is not a metaphor.

I want him to pace
fluidly and frantically
with a book in his right
hand and a smoke
waving in the air
in his left.

He will draw nicotine circles
voice circles
around me.
I will look at
the floor
in awe
as if I were
Staring at the universe.

This is not a metaphor.
I am staring at the universe.

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