It is the sound light makes as it breaks into lavender shingles of dusk signaling the end of the day
a weeping orchestration chest the variegated ponds of light peach, azure
dappled drips of orchid like hungover bad-80's mascara, the tempo of the seasons split into the feeling of your body inside her body like your body all alone ensconced inside the curtain of your own flesh, the feeling at sunset that somehow next harvest will be more propitious, that life shouldn't hurt this much at times.
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