Who is it we talk to when we are alone with ourselves?
Are we nuts if we answer the questions we raise?
Are e pervert to remember those things that brought us joy when
ultimately we ruined what might have become divine?
Are we crazy to recall how flesh felt under the touch of our
fingers, the pleasant, smooth surface that led to things even more intense, the
wet embrace, the kiss of other parts of our anatomy, other than our lips?
How made are we if we imagine doing it all again, when doing
it again is not possible?
Do we live up to Einstein’s definition of madness, doing the
same thing over and ove expected a different result?
Or are we merely clinging to the bed sheets, feeling what we
thought we felt, hearing songs we thought we heard, even when these tunes were
written for someone else.
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