Linger (or In Dreams)

I hate those dreams,
the ones that linger
and stumble into memory.
The dreams
that follow you like smoke
and stick to your skin like winter.
I hate them
because you barrel back to me,
rapid fire fragments
of your face,
your hands,
those eyes I can’t quite remember
but can never forget.
I hate them
because I must feel the loss of you
once more,
the pang of missed chances
and lost love.
Those dreams
make it all so real again.

No wonder I can never seem to forget.




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