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The Sun


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There he hangs.
like the remnants of a wax candle, he clings to his chandelier.
the domestic lowers the once-fiery cage.
from the chandelier's sharp spikes, he roughly removes the mounds of wax.
he discards them in a bin.
i wait.
he shifts the ladder underneath the next chandelier.
the lump in my throat and the realization in my heart climb in tandem with his tattered shoes.
i know the call will come soon.

The master calls for tea, and the servant leaves.
seizing the opportunity, i run for the bin.
three mournful mounds of wax gaze up at me; one is beautiful.
i grab him, cling to him, and, for a moment, he is mine.
he belongs to no one else.
i feel complete, loved.
the feeling leaves.
i desperately try to reform the mound into the smooth cylinder he was before.
it is useless. he is gone.
i am alone.

The servant returns, and i pretend to be discarding an old napkin.
the smile betrays my doubt.
"goodnight," i say.
tears wander down my face.
having lost their direction, they dejectedly slide off my chin.
i fall into my bed and turn towards the window.
night wars with the coming dawn.
i fear blackness will win the battle.
as i begin to doze, fears become truths.

I awake to The Sun.



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