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The whisper and the drizzle

I’ve always dreamt of
living in the mountains
with you; in a quaint,
little cottage with its
fireplace, and high,
vaulted ceiling. I’ve
dreamt of the two dogs
we’d own and the long
walks we’d take when
the mist kisses the pines
and the twilight caresses
the steeple of the old
cathedral with its delicate,
orange fingers. But lately
we’ve found ourselves in
a cul-de-sac of melancholy
circumscribed by
ramshackle huts,
trash bins and
thornbushes. You hold me,
say, “Things will get better,”
and I wish I could share
that sentiment, but years
of looking at the smog
staining the windowpane
with its sickly-green
tongue, and days
spent as a
miniature, stoic house
in a paperweight of ash
has made me realise
that even if we sprinkled
stardust on the
loner, he’d still feel
the apple embedded in
his back. So, I hold you
and smile wistfully, thinking
of when we were younger,
and when the grey
skies of dusk
only spoke of soft rains.

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