morning light
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She never slept; morning simply found her standing at the edge of night while the sky bruised itself into gold.
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One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.
A poetry library for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
She never slept; morning simply found her standing at the edge of night while the sky bruised itself into gold.
One glowing window in a sleeping house holds the last confession of a night that still has not learned how to end.