Memories are Awful Things

Memories are awful things that want to talk before I sleep – can’t help themselves reminding me the stimulating things I’ve seen contrast with boredoms of the bedroom, their brightness louder than the gloom that I worked hard to be surrounded by. All my friends are dead and I am too – it’s winter, veins turn blue and freeze like coils of outdoor hose. Memories of thrift store clothes and busted seams and drugged out dreams – my body doesn’t want to sleep; my mind however seeks the peace of thick black curtains, dreamless drowse – memories of threading crowds like needles with your hand in mine, trusting that you’re still behind me somewhere.

~ by perfectionatrix on December 20, 2011.

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