Behind sight, sleepless pale,
The colour within me quickens,
and muscles contract as if spun,
the breath within me refuses to leave.
For the opium doesn’t seem to be working;
plasma dries a burnt-sienna; crumbles and shifts through,
static nerves, that intertwine and twitch,
in benevolent harmony.
So the adrenaline fog, cradles me
to a heavy insomnia, nestled,
gently, as a porcelain womb, curved,
in the palm-of-hand.
I can’t stop thinking of you.
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