I am lost in time.
I know your face — who are you?
Just wait, who am I?
A dabbler, a story teller.
How does it work?
Dementia is beyond words. It’s rough.
More stories from Kristen Haveman and writers in Poets and other communities.
Tick — a startled cry Training wheels and studying Tock — a lonely grave
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Sleepless nights bathed in the light of the droning TV, familiar music and memories, I travel back to 2015 in my mind. -
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The glass of Absinthe sat before me. It’s quite amazing how despite such terror rendered upon their stones in the preceding decades, these streets still held the beauty I first read about as a girl. I never dreamed I’d set foot on these cobbles, at least not safely.
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Comments (1)
Dementia is beyond words. It’s rough.