Under the vulgar whispers of the clouds, the backbones of the branches crepitated. The harsh howl the old wood released was enough to shake the resting trees – sufficient for a death. Scrapped knees grazed the rock-filled surface of the dried land. If torture was meant to kill, the definition was lost somewhere between the process.
“Everything in between is the flaw and us as the fault.”
It was the thunderstorm of the blooming sun in Spring. Like the Autumn leaves, you crushed me under your palms as you breathed the coming dawn.
Should it be how or when?
WORD COUNT: 100
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