They ask me if I'm in pain.
"Can I describe it?" to them.
Shall I show them my book?
It is a bustling, budding, pain that breathes with my pulse.
A thousand stabs in methodical measure...
1...2...3...1...2...3... breathe-in,
breathe-out... 1...2...3..., the undeniable waltz.
Always there, those tiny dancers, in one place before the next and back again.
Slow, easy and predictable.
You could almost fall asleep to it's rhythm,
if it wasn't for the pain
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