The air lingers in creased sheets, as close and warm as beloved flesh, precious morsels clotting in the lungs. I breathe in this too familiar dusk, the heat struggling to find its way to heaven. I take a drink of something that once was cold, that once was sweet. Each swallow lets a little piece go, the trickling theories of sentience fall clattering onto the walk ways as this dim communion takes me further from the last thin conceit of thought. That flavor remains, like school day lessons of another tongue. The taste of your flesh unsettled and bright. The way the ghost of your scent arrives with the dusk, leaving when the wind reaches for the cliched stars.
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