I will always hear it in my head, the songs not sung for me
which I have absconded with for my own benefit, the words meant for someone else
at some time long ago, stirring me up from the inside, not with pain so much as
longing, songs full of passion for someone somewhere, bits of love, dripping
onto my forehead like Chinese torture, one precious drop at a time, the
perpetual touch working into me until I come believe the songs, the sound of
her voice belong to me, when I know better.
I hear them in my sleep, an echo of an echo, waking me at
odd moments, finding me in this deplorable condition I can’t easily resolve in
the dark, without her, and know that I hear what I wish to hear, want I want to
hear, what vibrates through me all night, an illusive mirage, yet one that
seems so real, so potent, so overwhelming I can do nothing but react and wait
until the swelling subsides
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