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the summer reminds me of him
the warm rays of the sun
are his golden eyes
hitting my skin
with it’s gentle harshness
the warm wind is
his caress
a year ago
we were in love
or he was with me
I not with him
and he not with me
but the idea of me
imprinted in his mind
until I became real
and then he became real

that night of a new beginning
flesh awakened and words
left unsaid
he was so new
it was all so new
tongue-tied and limbs
in awe
of his mind
and his skin
I became real and
he became real again

floods of desire
in falling for him,
or his flesh
in awe still,
but shaken from my fear
he becoming everything and all
I ever dreamed of
but unsure of his dream
In me
I was real
and he was more real

together in oneness
I was his
And he was mine
I was in love
and he-
no longer with the idea of me
I was so real
and he was so real

together again
hurt but still there
he was real
and I was less real

together in flesh
but not in soul
didn't know where to reach
to bring him back
not knowing
if he could come back
or where he was at all
I wasn't real
but he was still real

winter came
and froze over his heart
I kept myself warm
blanketed under my memories
reassuring myself,
that I have to be real
longing for when
I would see him again
until I was crushed under
layers of
left wondering
“when did I stop becoming real?”

it’s summer again
it’s still sinking in
that I’m not real
but he’s still real
don’t come back
with the sun

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
Please use care (this is a sensitive subject for me, do not critique harshly)
Editing stage: 


a nice soliloquy

raj (sublime_ocean)

I just say what I think and since I'm a pussy cat it usually turns out nice.

Even the bad stuff.
Verso Libre... what can I say? I need structure and form, but that is my struggle. I'm seeking help and your poem is good therapy. I long for punctuation. I think even your poem would benefit.
Can I talk of the length? Bravo. I love long poems. I live for bulk. Too hold a subject that long without getting repetitious is marvelous and hard. The back and forth in reality was a transition well thought out.
I wish I had a pithy thing to say that would improve the poem, but I haven't one.
Don't change a thing.

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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