The dogs scratch at the door at all hours, now, have expanded their home turf and found unused prayer cushions on the floor for rest. I haven't the heart to explain to them how all things will be over, how my love is only ever fleeting. It's too on the nose, even for me. I go to bed with a knot in my gutcannot get myself to relax.
The piles of fur amass in every corner.
You're already running out of time, running out of daylight hours in which to breathe the desert, running out of this one long breath held in the in-between, you are no ready yet to let it all be gone.
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