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I dreamed you were a god. In all these waking dreams, you were my patron saint: simple, uncomplicated, pure.

I dreamed you were a god once.

But I found I preferred the man.

I found I preferred the image of you, awash in the glow of a bath of silence which you preferred not to break with awkward words -- over the idea of you: perfect, beyond speech.

I found I preferred the complexities, the sorrows, the quick and subtle hesitations I could forget when you were holy.

I found every line on your face -- each revealed with increasingly clarity as I got closer -- was the character of that face, as well as the beauty. I found that the magic in your eyes would never have shone so brightly if not for the circles around them, and for the red that seeped in with night.

I dreamed you were a god once, you see. But outside of the dream, it is the man that kept me here.

I dreamed you were a god once.

But I found I preferred the man.

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