Marcus
iMessage
Dear W,
3 a.m. strikes, and like an invisible force, my itch flares up again.
I could call it an allergy, something that makes me crave you like an EpiPen in the moment. But it’s something lower than that, less dangerous. Something that crawls beneath my skin, something that makes me question whether I should speak or simply die in the silence.
Sometimes I think it would be pointless to text you.
Other times, I think it would do wonders,
a remedy for this heartache.
But wouldn’t that only be a relapse?
Another surrender to my addiction to the memories of you,
the ones that haunt my nights and leave me itching for something
I know I can never have again.
Sometimes I'm close to going crazy for not scratching an itch, you.
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