Gibbard's been mouring you / by Jeppe Møgelmose

I had a dream about you this night
long and vivid.
Reddish hair enticing me,
slender fingers embracing
the flirtatious nature of my being.
Long wiled plans
for impulsive manipulation,
you strung me along
on pretences of friendship and nothing more,
spinning your web of lustful romance.
Urges rising to the fore,
needs for lips to meet almost palpable,
I love you, but i do not truly know you,
and I think you feel the same,
even if we only speak in these dreams of mine.
And we never meet, not even in social skirmishes,
not since drunken blunders and half mistakes,
maybe mischiefs of late night conquerings.

I woke up,
just before the blissful encounter
that I suspect I may already have
experienced, but stored away
in drunken denial
because your lips have been calling me,
closer for years on end,
and in a party stupor,
I don't think I could deny you.
But dreams give hope to wishes,
that would soon forget.