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Chris Davis

The blackest of rooms wanton obsidian shined inward on one’s eyes — her eyes. Fissures of amber brown slapped angrily on a milk skin perfection not meant to harbor such disgrace, even in apathy… beautiful…she spoke in the Socratic Method, sharp, to the point, twisting the blade and fires breath the dragon sage as I watched her scream at me. I felt the sun go down more than saw; it struck me silly a moment, but then what could I do? “Walk with me,” I said. She nodded and I felt the moon shy behind a cloud more than saw. We clasped hands, walked together all alone, mostly on our own.