Left Side.

Left side. 

Legs thumping from in to out alongside the light bulbs which startle not illuminate.

People say its all in a look.

But its not. Its in a look away.

Blushing rushing beating not eating.

Heat rushes to fill the darkened shadowed void that envelops like a shroud. Taut physical tendons feel tense;

but nothing is worse than the left side lag. 

The tight, sharp, compressing, depressing of the vibrancy that should reside in that red darkened cloister. But its a ruin now.

Beautiful only in its age. Its past performance and utility. Now just empty

this cloister.

The priest prayed for its resurrection, its protection, its continuation.

They prayed and hoped and willed. Lit candles and traced the pathways of the smoke, the nerves.

But the doors remained shut; the valves rigid. Only receptive to one voice. One eye. One touch.

A touch that fails to touch. A look that fails to look. A light that fails to light.

A left side lag. 


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