4/25/12
The kind of tired that sneaks
into your house through the vents.
It hides in your vertebrae, behind your eyelids,
in the third joint of your little finger.
It whispers to you in the voice of your mother,
your sisters. It asks for soft things.
It shushes you when you speak, slides
thin fingers over your shoulders.
It smells like old books and rain, it's breath
scratches down your neck. Soft, it says. Soft.
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