The sky was still
sleeping, when your
heartstrings were
woken,
long had they
slumbered, both lost and out
spoken, of their days
in sweet,
silent ways. The sun
had not yet cast
her gaze upon the
edges
of the dawning world.
Grey-tinged, remained
the dips and curves
of season-less lands
beyond the bedroom
panes;
orange and mauve, crept,
in vain,
along the fringes of
leaves
and light-hungry blades,
who would blindly
steal them
for keeping;
…and I held tight
to your ghost-cold
hand – wake up,
you were only
dreaming.
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