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Mosaic

I suspect wherever you might wind,
That I won’t be that far behind.
You won’t be far from late-night lines,
From this silent, phonemic “voice” of mine.
You’ll see my face as you remember it being
A glowing, phosphorescent monitor screen.
Then to sleep – to dream that I’m there too,
Personified by the things that endear me to you.
Until enough midnight rendezvous go by,
You decide to give the real me a try,
And, when I finally take on legs, and arms,
And eyes, and ears, and human charms -
Having no earthly relation to the dream in the night,
You’ll exclaim: “Where in the hell is the man that I liked!?”

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