it’s in the early morning that you strike me:

when the moon is sleeping just beneath the horizon

and the dew-heavy grass soaks my shoes

and the mist sticks to my skin—

it is then that i can hear your voice most clearly,

slipping through the air,

a breath of winter frost caught at the verge of dawn.

i think——

you’ve tumbled off the edge of the world

and are calling in the dim light to come home,

back to a land that rests barren.

i think——

you’ve fallen to ruin under the weight of the sky

as you play Atlas,

as i play Zeus.

i think——

the morning sun has forgotten what you look like;


so have i.

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