The faces of half-dead lovers return again, and again. Always in the evenings. Behind closed doors and in the clutch of comas. The heavy curtains only block out the moonlight. Not the regret. They hold a tribunal and lay bare my failures. To one another, in the way of shared commiseration. But really, to me, nearby enough to hear their dreamvoices and disdain. Every hoop lip-piercing and high ponytail and meticulous eyelined-wing an iconic testament of my failure and foibles. Of which there are so very many. We politely ignore one another, even as our shoulders brush together. The shame is great and terrible, as I desperately try to find the nearest balcony ledge to swallow me.
1:14 p.m. - 2020-02-12
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