The apricot horizon – a peeping edge of silk beneath a sky
the colour of a two-day bruise, evidence of a punch dealt by a man who swore he
loved you – put me in mind of a petticoat, worn beneath a frayed and mud-thrawn
skirt ferreted from a bin by a
long-unwashed bag lady.
Perhaps a souvenir from a past life of material luxury whose
constraints – parental inquisitions – she found unbearable.
Wishful thinking? That the high can fall as far as I who,
almost, had to climb to reach even here? Whatever, the edge –
The End – was where I headed now.
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