The Last Hour Before The Dark
Contributed by
Andrew Cheverton on 08/12/09
Waiting. In the cold. In the dark. Her breath before her, fog. Her fingers, brittle twigs of ice. The last glow of summer sky slides like melting snow below the horizon. The sky is darkest blue. Each breath, a moment. Each moment, an hour; a day; a life.
The lights of the sky come out; the moon, the stars. And she waits. Her breath, her heart.
And when he comes, when he speaks beside her, his breath rolling out in white clouds, she seems not surprised; then, she barely moves at all.
Rivka Jacobs
It’s almost as if the characters are made of crystal! Beautifully written. A prose-poem. “Each moment, an hour; a day; a life.” If they weren’t breathing, I’d say they were already frozen into statues. This is like a delicate dance of two people, coming together. I want to continue the story in my mind, as a happy one — crystal ice melting, the cold disappearing, warmth and fire. But I can’t really feel the potential for warmth; it’s as if the man and the woman in this glimpse we get, are showing us the frozen crystalline interior of their relationship, and not a meeting on a winter night.
Beautiful writing, very fine.
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Nicolas Papaconstantinou
Nice, concise mood piece, Chev.
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