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eight

I often question if I can feel the ecstasy I used to know,
that old familiar rush that seeps through my skin.
Do I have to swallow those little numbers
(one through eight)
to make myself whole?
Only then do I fail to differentiate the warmth of my skin from the atmosphere.
And my heart pounds like a change in gravity.
My skin starts to inhale and a tidal wave crashes into my senses-
I’m disoriented and dazed and fulfilled momentarily,
so I’m lost in a cycle,
counting by eights.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2013




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Date: 10/23/2013 11:29:00 AM
What a title for such a depressing poem. Momentarily for sure and then the world comes back. love, Kathy
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Date: 10/23/2013 12:40:00 AM
wow, mesmerized by the number 8. kind of odd, but I love the poem. Skat
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