Let me enfold you, among the whispering of the night I say. It’s three in the morning, the end of December.
She tensely rubs in and peels off her skin, sour from unease. With trembling steps, she runs from the puzzled reality.
Knocks down all ruins and slumps of days and nights of her head. With the cracked smile she retains her frigid silence.
Her trembling self stops, and resolves the murk that is arriving from the underpasses of her mind. It hunts her, drives her, forces her.
She makes another vulnerable delicate step. There are no roads around her, people disappear by her side. She was closer and closer to the edge of her uproar.
To the crumbed, crushed edge of her mirk. One more step. One more. Lrt me enfold you, I say.