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The man in all your dreams You won't know 'cause I won't tell you You won't see, I'll keep it dark, you won't Guess 'cause I can hide it, in a box I call My heart. On a table in a hallway are Some letters trimmed in blue, I confess I Never sent them though they're all
Addressed to you There'll be no proof to go on, no litmus Paper test, no formal indicators, no way For you to guess. No clues to how I'm Feeling, no measure, cup or jug, no scale On which to weigh my heart, no way for
You to judge Your friends may not believe you, they'll Smile and look away, too much designer Stubble, the shirt too torn, too frayed. The Man too picture perfect, his love too much By half and as for where he keeps you
'In a box he calls his heart?' An ideal mystery lover, the man who Drives you mad, the man who never Touched you, but oh how you wish he Had. The man on every hoarding, the Man in magazines, the man you hope One day to meet, the man in all your
Dreams
© Joseph G Dawson Vote for this poem
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