They are warm in mine
I feel his fingers
They are soft, even smushy
I trace the lines
Once, twice,
Three times
Not ever again
What is it about death that makes us want more? More out of ourselves, out of life, out of living. I'm not sure, but what I do know is that I feel a presence that comes, goes, is near, is far.
"We all have a sickness" - Dig, Incubus
"We all have someone that digs at us"
"....Clever medicine"
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