You man of books,
You have dreamed so properly.
You kiss my lips
And say you love me.
I am thrilled to my bone,
Strive to be all I am not.
In my endevour I fail miserably.
I now have but one dream,
To blend with your dream.
You have dreamed already,
Of someone better than me.
Accept no less than the perfect.
I am not a statue,
Carved out of a piece of stone,
Chiselled and smoothed with care.
I am a brook, lively and exuberant,
With mosses, pebbles and bubbles.
I am not an image of perfection.
You smell my hair,
Deeply inhale the perfume.
You are intoxicated
By the scent of lavender
In the curve of my body.
You seek not me but a perfect shadow,
Picasso rest in the black of your eyes.
Your immaculate dream overwhelming.
I see all the images you draw,
But mine is lost somewhere.
You man of books I am done with you.
You miserable cad be off,
With your baggage of perfection.
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