I wake in the morning with acrid dewdrops on my tongue. I turn on my side and smell unfamiliarity on my pillowcase. The scent is sour grapes and fermented hope. To wash my pillow-slip is to also rinse out memories. So I teach myself to be accustomed to the bite of stale wine.
I ask a little blonde ghost how she lives. She responds politely, punching me in the stomach with knuckles tattooed with happiness.
I force the rictus smile I know I should, eyes watering.
By the time I regain my breath to ask for another, she's already gone.
9:52 p.m. - 2015-04-17
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