2012.01.20
These are what memories are made of; sepia photos of a baby born, while the dead of winter rages on; Nyquil dreams and scraped knees; catastrophic flooding, hope and delicate crystals given to me so I will love you like no other; voices in your head that weave musical lullabies, adventures which could never be true. A clock ticking at noon, vintage furniture, porcelain dolls, heavy drapery, velvet costumes that you dress me in, allude to your madness and your expensive tastes. Without match for my intuition, you trip over your words and phrases, singing songs to me that I did not believe, even when I was young. I see now your bruises. I have heard tales. You can’t live in a nightmare forever. I will love you anyways, stranger.
