“I’ve only met you twice,”

he says sharply.

Only.

I feel badly for you.

You see,
I’ve only met you
in my daydreams
my fantasies
in my dreams you come to me.

I see you in my 
projections
face you in the 
ideas of the future
join you in images I create.

I talk to you in poems,
I feel you in the words.
I look for you in pictures.

“I’ve only met you twice,”

he says, 
as if that’s reason
for why I should not care
that he has not met me
as deeply as I have met him.