She was waiting there a long time for the right moment.

Sick of feeling and absorbing fear through the oxygen in that house.

Her hands were constantly dusty from pawing at the old plaster board walls.

The climbing and scratching there had peeled the once soft skin away.

Somedays, she would dance in her room accepting the flaking dust,

Play pretending it was snow.

Play pretending it was ash, as she dreamed to breathe in the remnant of her soul.

Fighting through the swollen lids, butchered hands and bleeding lips,

It was the moment she’d saved for. Her strength.

She laid waiting a long while there,

Wondering if it was the old rickety latch that gave her way.

She wanted to feel the warmth of the summer evening so badly,

But now, even on the heat of the footpath,

all she felt was cold.

Part of her was laying far out of reach,

Her hair a sticky red mess. Her mind exposed.

All she could do was keep waiting

Knowing that she’s gone so far for this night.

She had left the old river house.

Enjoying the sounds, the breeze and stars.

and he finally kept a promise.

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