One of the most intimate things you can do to a person is write your name in their book.
Only two people have ever done this to me.
I miss them...
Darkness litters everything I see, dull soft tones covering sharp objects. Cloudy thoughts steam up inside me, and I'm constantly too hot, peeling off the bedcovers to run away from haunting dreams. Eyes adjust to odd shapes, I stub my toe.
I've become a midnight walker.
No books will do it, I start and finish, tearing pages in protest. My mind rambles and my mouth mumbles hello's and goodbyes.
To begin with something and to leave with nothing is such a waste of a troubled journey.
The only question left is,
can I risk it?
My tongue is not tied, it is tortured.
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