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In the (Subjunctive) Mood
Dear noun I'd never know, O man | of my dreams-I should really like to keep you there, honest, as far from my arms as the one in the moon: round white lie we love looking up to without once stretching out a hand. Even the moon must know better than to touch down here, where the wind at any moment can slap a fond reflection right out of the pond. Lie easy where you are, obliquely mine. Off-center, but not wrong. I'd wrap you in abstraction, embed you in subplot, make you the object of my wholly vocative O. One quick call in the dead of night had made a redoubtable prize, a perfect present, of yourself: voilà, the whites of your eyes; lo, sighs drawn against my cheek. If only these sheets were slips of cloud, this telling breath a mist. I think this time you'd best put on your dream outfit for keeps- it hides the better part of what were better hid. Go back to sleep. A flame lives longer in thin air, these thousand miles between us. Forget what you don't know. Stay there. We'd want candles, wine and alibis were this love merely in the making. Let's keep this light, that might go out with whispering, or waking.