The Dying Light
Sonya Cotton
The Dying Light. When the scar on my hand was a wound, torn open, bleeding loose, you were there to hold in the blood. Your mouth around my hand, I want it there again. And to lie piled in the corner, and to watch the dying light, as the walls cave and cradle us, shutting out the cold cold night. It’s happened before, where out of the ocean, out of the blue, came you. The time has nearly come for you to come again.
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