Ashes fell from the hush of the sun, and I licked the sky clean with my breath. You watched me blister into September, your feet crunching my yesterday’s green.
My skin peeled like birch bark at the edges— you whispered, wait, but time had already sharpened its knives. Fog kissed your lashes, made you blink slower.
I wore twilight like a wet scarf, you pressed your palms to windows, counting ghosts in the glass reflection. We traded sweat for wool, heat for hush,
and the geese stitched goodbye across the ceiling. You held out your hands like a bowl of frost. I curled into the pocket of your coat. Ashes.
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