Lips Stuck

Tremors of shuttered light blind me at this height and I can hear the squeaking of rusted metals grinding.

Sun burns hot on black leather sticking to damp cotton and the breeze lifts the light again.

Is this moment when?

Waiting with breath held tight a shift in posture and release comes with chilled ache.

Saturday night was the last time I saw Moon and she wore red lipstick.

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