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I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.

Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make

your dear voice come alive again?



I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my

chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.

For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many

days and years, I would surely become a shadow.



O scales of feeling.



I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.

I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who

counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and

face of some passerby.



I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much

with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom

among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the

moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.

