My fingertips burn with burgeoning calluses, steel strings still smarting from months of neglect. I forget how to make bar chords. I woke shortly before lunch with a start but reveled in familiarity; nights were made for writing, not mornings, your life was made for madness, not order. All afternoon, the blood in my body on fire, beating through my skin and falling out in words, spilling into sentences, I recognize the face in the paper mirror and hadn't remembered to long for her, thinking she was but a figment of my imagination.
For a dream, she feels terribly real.
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