This slow novocaine,
it starts to wear off,
as well as the fiction
I made him into.
Like a slow and
lingering read
he’s been, like a book
you don’t want to
put down and yet,
every time you do,
you find yourself,
again and again,
coming back to it.
Perhaps, for something
you missed, or
something you needed
to somehow rethink
or reprocess.
Like how the lip
and the tongue
start to regain
feeling like
you’ve been asleep,
until the blood pools in
to re-awaken,
all the senses you
thought were dead –
but only deadened. 

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