If

I’d been dreaming
of you coming
to me for so long.
It went somewhat wrong,
though, coming to reality
(that itself was an oddity
I did not expect to happen).
I’d have been the happiest person
in the whole world if you had come alone.
Ecstatically joyous, I would have thrown
myself around your neck as I was,
just woken up, hair a greasy mess,
face all puffy and unwashed yet
(it doesn’t get uglier than that,
I swear; there you saw me almost
—save for crying long—at my worst),
and I wouldn’t ever want to let go,
taking in your scent in breaths deep and slow.
I would want to feel your presence,
to derive the utmost pleasance,
with every single cell of my body.
Once again I would feel blessed and giddy
like when I danced with you
and fell in love with, too.
I would have certainly
kissed you passionately
and stare into your beautiful eyes,
pale blue like early morning skies
tinted with some lime,
for the longest time,
whispering how much I’d missed you,
absolutely not caring who
might possibly see us there.
I’d be proud of the affair.
Let the entire world know
that you are my beloved beau.