I’ve been searching for this poem for years.  I had it handwritten in an old journal of mine from college, and I remember copying it from a book that my roommate had at the time.  I stopped looking for it eventually, but just a few minutes ago something told me to google it again (curiously, i found a few different translations as the original was written in French).  I’m happy to say it doesn’t literally translate as perfectly for me anymore, but the words you’re about to read completely defined me for a very long, very sad time. I’m glad those days are over but I still see the beauty in this poem:

I’ve dreamed of you so much that you’re losing your reality.
Is it already too late for me to embrace your literal, living and breathing
physical body and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of that voice which is
so dear to me?
I’ve dreamed of you so much that my arms–which have become accustomed to
lying crossed upon my own chest after attempting to encircle your
shadow–might not be able to unfold again to embrace the contours of your
literal form, perhaps
So that coming face-to-face with the actual incarnation of what has haunted me
and ruled me and dominated my life for so many days and years
Might very well turn me into a shadow.
Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales!
I’ve dreamed of you so much that it might be too late for me to ever wake up
I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the usual phenomena of life and love
and yet when it comes to you–you, the only being on the planet who matters to me
now– I can no more touch your face and lips than I can those of the next random
I’ve dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with
your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now
Is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadowy
than that shifting shape which moves and which will go on moving,
stepping lightly and happily across the sundial of your life.