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It was almost 5:00am.

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When you trickled warm fingers across my forehead, and backward again. Your fingers forget the path that they had been eternally repeating, and traveled away, trying to find the life in deceased veins, flowing like wet ribbons in the breeze of your bodies last quarrel. You couldn’t send a whisper past the lake of candles lit, and when you tried the candles would blow out. Your soul would depart into the wind, whirling around in a way that left trees who touched a branch to the swirling movement, perpetually bewailing. Years passing by, and the memory was left to dissipate until it’s bitter embarkation. The branches of the infected tree, which were once your comforting fingers That liked to write invisible poems into the flesh of my face, with gentle touches that had lulled me to limbo They start to dwindle unto the rocky surface, where grass had just been standing at my waist, but all life had seemed to come to an end in the moments just passed. Now the tree, that held the most life in the field, had soundlessly vanished into a cluster of dust, to be swept away into the atmosphere. And the memory of you had no longer dwelled among the withered field, and I had been the one to release you.





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