relapse

The whisper of a possibility that you might be as tender as the feathers in your fingertips has got me thinking, running my fingers over each whisp or image, rerunning each recalled word or glance. All so distracting, it keeps me up at night, as partial and piecemeal as whatever it was is--what is left of it after the bottle of whiskey and days of giddy replays. So I am really just thinking too much, and letting fall my jacket on a shady coat rack. But sometimes that is what you do, to avoid dwelling on the rigid quickening of the hamsterwheel beneath your feet.