It’s far past the stretch of day when the light slowly distorts into the twisted and cold depths of eve. Only slight past the hour that marks existence of the morn to which you’ll awake, heavy-heart and sombre- conscience. To what do you owe such an awakening? Perhaps the answer lay in a string of broken promises, or the devouring of a life flame; so cruelly snuffed.
You’ll awaken in these dead hours of night to stare at a chiming grandfather clock in a lonely room;
to wash the blood of the deed from your soiled hands. Two hands you held close to your face. Close to your living breath.