She reads by moonlight—
real books of ink and paper.
She watches television
with the sound off.
She leaves Spotify running
as she fades to sleep—
volume low as a blanket
so she’ll dream her own songs.
She loves my poetry but never
wants to meet the poet.
She’d rather fill in the gaps
with her imagination.
I’d just destroy her image of me
with my mundane reality.
A lovely read of imagination and reality.
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Thank you. I’ve been leaning on imagination over reality these days.
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