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longwayhome
  . . .

morning fits
with amber hues
her memory of night –
of places left
beyond the reach of dreams
where stories fell in secret
pages brittle bound –
light was lost to
moments
burned between

longing wakes
before the sun –
pulls the covers round
til supper is grown cold
and windows black –
living tends to hurt
the least
dying feels so wrong –

time
– it seems so different
looking back

. . .