Eighty Six

It is morning.

Hungry, he bursts through the windows, fingers licking blindly at table edges, photographs, odds, ends, forgotten bottom drawers, fresh-smelling books – sending dust mites into an eternity of suspended animation. He claws, urgently, inches from her bed. His body thumps desperately at her panes, his fully distended arms quivering in tension, his nails stretching for just one graze –

Trying to catch the stray whites in her hair; to etch in a thought that he, the valiant, had just killed another batch of twelve hours. Just to be with her.

He was waiting to punish her pupils and lashes that had slept on their jobs, intoxicated by black oblivion. How dare they shut him out.

Outraged, he rises to full height, consuming every pithy shadow in his way. The netting on her windows, the motifs on the railings, the tight-bound textile of her sky blue curtains – all melt in the golden splendour, his golden splendour, that floods the floor.

His stinging fingers are at her shoulder; his face refracted at her nose stud, exploding into a million different beings; his hot breath minutes from her cold cheeks.

When abruptly, she stirs in her sleep, tucks her blanket over her head,
and banishes Light forever.

4 thoughts on “Eighty Six”

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