I still hear it in the morning like a whisper from my
dreams, left over, a ricochet, an echo, I can’t absolutely define, not so much
the sweet melody of her voice, from the over worn CD I play to replace the real
voice I used to hear in those hours prior to sleep, songs she sang long ago for
someone else, who I don't know, a methadone treatment for what I can no longer
inject into my veins, an echo of an echo, stroking me as I stroke myself, my
hand filling in for her hands, my pain relieving the ghost of what once was, a
morning ritual that has me rise up with the sun, needing to expel the night demons,
one slow careful stroke after the other, even to the rhythm or music I only now
hear in my head;
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