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The trees swell.  And the clouds are fat like spoiled children.  The day boils and my arm hangs listlessly out the window of the car.  Oil stains shimmer.  And a dog in the shadow of the house waits, still, tongue wet and glistening.

“Get out of the car, Junebug. I’m sorry.”

“Go to hell,” I whisper.

“You can’t sit there in this heat all day.  You’ll fry.  Come inside right now.”

But I sit, and sit.  And watch the bruises blossom.  Until the night follows.  And the call of crickets makes it easier to breathe.

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2 comments

  1. Shees, Dolce. Just Shees. I’m really happy you’re writing here.

  2. Me too. Really awesome to read your words here. It has been a while.

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