Falling west from the sky.
I catch it in my cupped fingers,
It saturates me with its golden hue
Staining my hands,
My arms.
A ritual in finality.
The sky is cooled by a lace of stars,
barely visible,
and I cradle this burnt remnant of yesterday—
and try to absorb it’s smoky stories, to inform
the virgin tomorrow
which lies ahead.
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