But find no comfort in its feathers and patchwork. despite the wine and rich food, breaking down into calories, i feel cold, way deep inside, and itβs the kind of cold that canβt be fought
with Hollandaise or alcohol or a pile of quilts. i wish i had a joint. a big, fat, stinky j to slide me into sleep. but no, all i can do is lie here, brain turning summersaults. itβs nights
these when memories stir, whipping themselves into stiff peaks of pain. here comes one now, materializing like Daddy did that night. the night he came to me, crossed the final line.