These wee hours of strangled consciousness
I am roused awake; wide eyed and throbbing.
I have many hot and weakening tears to dispense.
They are an ode to the demise of my hopes.
I wonder and wander; sieving questions I am not sure I want the answers to.
The prospect of throwing another email into the abyss that is your inbox beckons.
Memory’s bony fingers keep bringing me to stare blankly at my keyboard.
I remember wearing your attentions like colourful, mystical garlands.
I was surprised to be a queen, comfortable in the squalor of my solitude.
You should have left me there, let me be.
Still, I want to eat your thoughts.
I want to touch myself to the way you see things.
These wee hours and wanting to write you

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