Black as the centre of an eye, the centre, a blackness
that sucks at light. I love your vigilance
Night, first mother of songs, give me the voice to sing of you
in those fingers lies the bridle of the four winds.
Crying out, offering words of homage to you, I am
only a shell where the ocean is still sounding.
But I have looked too long into human eyes.
Reduce me now to ashes Night, like a black sun.
-Marina Tsetayeva
Saw-toothed and sharp-tongued slider-through-the-dusk.
Hips rocking, calves stretching, muscles bunching, she sways.
Sweat, like blood, pools in the small of her back, shaking free of her
almost-addiction...or...trying.
What blood pumps through that hammering chamber?
And when she walks, at night, is that sleep in her eyes, or a more pungent fatigue?
The quick flash of the daggers in her eyes never goes unnoticed, however unremarked they may be.
She'll talk.
Or she won't.
Either way, she'll tell you something...
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