The ice running through my veins
is hardly due to the weather.
I woke with a chill in a dark room,
hands grasping the pillow.
And if I hadn't known any better,
I'd blame it on a ghostly nightmare...
but your face hardly counts as
ghastly.
It's as if I'm a fugitive and you're
the police.
I keep running from your memory,
but you always find me.
Surfacing in my sleep is the newest
form of torture.
The ice running through my veins
is hardly due to the weather.
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