It’s getting difficulter now.
I’m losing all the different strands
Of stories in my itchy head.
I find them broken, fallen out,
At times among the tiny flecks
Of paper shreddings on my scalp.
I find them on my pillowcase.
I find them on my washroom floor.
I find them in the spines of books
Like errant bookmarks on their own.
Perhaps the stress, the age, the soap
Conspire in the dead of day
To tell me time is running fast.
That stories left unnourished long
Do dry up where they once were strong.

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