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like the desert misses the rain

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i.

"is the sun ever lonely?"

"what?"

the walls breathe, torrid with heat. and the windowpanes, they spin, sheathed opaque with rising smoke. she slid her fingers up his arched piano spine, exhaling soft dirges into his left ear.

"you know, the sun is so alone up there, giving its unrequited light. and the stars, they don't give a damn. they have no idea, not until the sun decides one day it's tired. the stars, then, will miss the sun, like the desert misses the rain."

she sighed. her oceanic mind, the abysmal depth of thought, played a game of hide&seek in black and white.

and he saw through her maxims, the primordial thirst for expression.
she had porcelain skin, pouching crimson lips painted in an upturned crescent. iridescent sparkles in her ebony eyes.
and ebony hair too, an abyssmal ocean of ebony hair, waves ebbing on the sides to frame her paper white visage and thin shoulder blades.

bodies tender and torrid, twisting like fireflames.
bedsheets a-swirling,
the ceilings spinning with vertigo,
and the tobacco rising over the mountain zeniths of shoulder blades and naked ankles and elbows,
entangled sin.

ii.

fireworks splattered like crimson wine over empty platters, the frostbitten glasses rattle with trepidation, as another saga of fireworks surged up the sleeping sky, enveloping them in a deafening cataract of tumbling wildfire.

the rims of her eyes were rheumy, the ceiling spinning again like the world was a wine glass in the hands of a wine connoisseur.

he let his hand make patterns over her ivory white hipbones, ghost-white. as if they were painted to conceal livid bruises unhealed from just a few nights ago----
the lurid blanket was a cadmium yellow seeping through jaundiced green.
the setting sun wooed and stole away the last whit of the setting sun, and autumn frost fell taciturn.
he murmured saccharine love songs. she echoed their cadences in a shadowy hum.

"oh anastasia... marry me," he whispered,
but she had fallen asleep.
the two words fell with the sound of silence, covering the unspoken sins of yesteryear.
but they were not forgotten,
for she had heard him.
she heard him murmur those words in her sleep. "marry me". and she dreamed of a field of lackadaisical poppies, the languid air drowned in opium ecstasy.

and at one unsung moment, she had murmured "yes"
and thrown her flowers into the summer air.

iii.

Kenny would say that if he stared hard enough, he could feel the world rotating under his feet.
but now he's gone. his old leather shoes are stored up in a paper box up in the attic,
and so are his poetry books, whole stacks of them, the pages yellowing on the sides but the words transcending through her azure veins.

remember those afternoons, forming poetry with our lips and writing invisible lines over the ceiling?

she doesn't say much, not anymore.

the room is cold, the furniture too quiet. the walls don't breathe, instead they stand stoic and quiescent.
latent lies.

she flipped through one of his poetry notebooks. in it were the words she once murmured but has now forgotten:
"the stars, then, will miss the sun, like the desert misses the rain."

his verses become a battling cry in her mind. she screams them in low undertones to the scathing wind, to the fireworks bursting in flames over never ending plains.



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