In the deathly quiet before the dawn
when the night is darkest
and the soul is most alone,
ghosts creep into the mind
and chain me to the witching hour.
They come in vivid color
the immortalized, memorized faces
in beautiful, idyllic places,
and reconstructed laughter--
always slowly fading away,
still draining into the years
of letters buried in drawers
and photos of strangers--
the constant reminders
of loss.
Sometimes I am convinced
to never sleep again
because tomorrow brings nothing back,
only new things to give away.
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