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September 11, 2011
Touch. Touch. Touch. There is tapping at the back of your head, ghost fingers that burn and heal, burn and heal.

Can you remember the first time she touched you? Can you remember those warm fingers brushing against yours and sending fire into your veins? Fire that buried itself somewhere near your heart and stayed for years and years and years? Never flickering. Not even once. Not even when you tried to drown it with booze, with drugs, with your lungs filled with water.

Touch. Touch.

Ghost fingers tracing hate, pain, and love in the wrinkles of your memories.