by Valentina Cano

It is night and the fires have stopped.
Smoke curls around me,
cocooning me in its velvet touch,
I wish it were always like this,
a soft drifting of thoughts,
a languid toss of memories
and words spoken by other mouths.
But it is not.
I know the fires will be stoked tomorrow,
the light reaching into my mind’s every corner,
scorching it raw.

 

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