It feels all wrong only I can't say why, a nagging like a cough, a tickle in
the back of my brain rather than in the back of my throat, a sense something
that makes no sense, yet can't stop sensing it, not good or bad, maybe both, the end of
something I do not want to see expire.
I get this each time
she passes me on the stairs or past my Harry Potter world where she is The
wizard and I am the Muggle, the whisperer of a snake, the glass that closes me
in and I can’t escape from, the inevitable something we dare not dwell upon,
maybe fearing what we wish for might come true, even though it may be the last
thing we wish for, the terrible lonely nights, waiting for the ping on our
phone I know will never come, the tea leaves telling me something I can't
possibly read and must wait for to happen, as if I sit on a fault and feel the
distant rumble of an earthquake I know I can't avoid, who's fault is full
anyway, this vulnerability, this raw nerve, I hear her screech from the rooftop
at night long after the sound of it as expired, a raw nerve stretched again and
again
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