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I just wanna be with you.
This thought just
leapt up and out
of the immediate tangibleness
of copyright documents
and stock market bond certificates
and gold-leaf five-digit cheques
peering with squinted eyes
at me
over fresh caviar
steaming smoked Greek sea bass
and a plate of tartufo mushrooms
worth their weight in gold.
I just want to be with you.
Give me your dreams
and your adolescent simplicity.
I want to be there
when you bring your daughter
to the beach
to see the ocean
for the first time.
I want to eat the dinner
you know how to cook
and fall asleep next to you
wearing a night shirt
you’ve seen on me
a million times.

In the “real world”,
that is,
outside the classroom
that had once been home
to both
my profession
and my education
there are no wise arms
to take refuge in
that can tell you
for certain
you did the right thing
because we live in a society
where the end
justifies the means
and history
is the only thing
that can absolve your sins
but you may very well
be dead
by the time
your choices make sense

and I
will not take that chance.
Do you hear me?
I refuse to.
But the fog is up to my eyes.
This could be the path
that finally lets me
dig my tunnel
towards you
but I won’t really see
until I dig it.
And if you’re not there
the light at the end
it would be too late
to try again.