Puretaboo
Sabina Rouge, Mary Moody Pic(s)
The air itself felt thick with the ghosts of what was, a heavy perfume of memory clinging to the damp skin of my throat. Each ragged inhale was a struggle, pulling in the chill of a room that once held our shared warmth, now just an empty vessel echoing with silence. My fingers, trembling, traced the cold outline of a pillow that still faintly smelled of your hair, a scent of sunshine and sandalwood that now carved a hollow ache deep within my chest. But then, a single, stubborn shaft of late afternoon light broke through the parted curta, falling across the rumpled sheets like a golden road. It carried the distant, rhythmic sound of rain beginning to fall, a gentle percussion that was not a dirge but a cleansing, washing the grime from the windowpane and the stagnation from my soul. The warmth of that light seeped through the thin cotton of my shirt, a slow, penetrating heat that began to unknot the cold tension coiled in my shoulders. A shuddering sigh escaped my lips, not of sorrow, but of release, as if my very bones were exhaling a poison I had carried for too long. In that quiet alchemy of light and sound, a fragile new sensation bloomed, a tentative unfurling deep in my belly like the first green shoot after a long frost. It was the quiet, terrifying, and exhilarating pulse of possibility, a nascent beat agat my ribs promising that feeling, in all its agonizing and exquisite forms, was far from over.
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