Living with this parasitic doubt, I fall asleep quickly and stay there too long, the better to dream it away.
Treachery is a hockey card, a gambling debt repaid too soon to overwrite the inclination toward the illicit, too fast to fill the grave with anything other than a fine white powder.
You love too well to be out of practice, and I’m too out of practice to be worth your while.
Despite the secret liaisons and hidden childhood fortunes and despite the prairie cold that radiates from your untouchable skin, it’s me, always me; I have my doubt for company.
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