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The lines keep crossing in my head Where you end and begin. So I keep telling myself that if dreams were prophetic I would have died a hundred thousand deaths (But that dream definitely wasn’t death). I know that it wasn’t really your hands, With the calluses on your fingertips, And your musician’s fingers. It wasn’t those hands that skimmed my jaw, That tangled in my hair. The lines you said aloud are tripping over what you really say, Anything you would actually say to me. I am aware that while you might push me-- Gently, jokingly, defensively-- I am aware of how your hands feel against my shoulders. It wasn’t those hands that pushed me against the wall. Now any time I see you the lines get crossed, And I keep insisting that it was only a dream. That you will never know (You'll think your sparring partner is insane) I will not trip over the wires in my head For then I might fall note: *screams* This is getting ridiculous.