Even now I’m tempted to touch it, when I think of her, just
as I did on those dark nights, texting leading to touching, even when she could
not see what I did on my end of the thing, unable to see what I saw, what I
still see sometimes, what inspired me.
I ought to be over all this like an invalid that should have
recovered as time moves on, Mostly I am, except on some nights when it all
comes out again, like a ghost, and my fingers crawl across fabric and try to
touch it again, and again I think of her, in the dark, in the dead of night, no
texts to stir me up, only memories, and wishes that won’t ever come true, stirred
up, while I can’t keep it down any more
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