The ache of it; the throb and pangs, comes most acutely late in the dark, before sleep; then later just prior to dawn, the pale blue of sky, coming and going, with the promise of sleep, kept or not kept, dark then later light.
I never get over it, the lingering as if fragments of dream
I can recall only bits and pieces of, never the complete picture.
I feel it down deep in my bones, the tingle at first,
evolving – if not into pain, then into pressure like a bruise I can’t repair regardless
of how hard or long I massage, rubbing it the way I might the neck of a bottle,
waiting for the genie to emerge, popping out of nowhere if not with relief,
then at least with a moment’s pleasure.
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