sometimes
the showers
of sound,
the cursed
drops of memory
and even
the rush of the wind
will cooperate.
the room’s soft vibrations tickle my eardrums
and the illumination of the screen disturbs my eyes - are they red? -
which beg the occasional close.
the tenderness in my pointer and middle
amuses me,
only through pain can they be rebuilt.
i am so artificial.
plastic teeth and plastic eyes,
warped senses and chapped lips and
a scowl that a restless night of sleep does little for.
in the dark,
i read a biography.
authored by a stranger and endorsed by exhaustion.
which amplifies the throbbing in my head.
as sleep - reason - arrives with a dramatic flare,
waves of relief take me out to sea.
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