Margins: Breathe

The metal shines, but it’s all wrong. The glint of the sun warps, tilts, shifts. 

In. Out. 

It looks alive. It looks both burning and freezing, like the threat of bodily harm may be worth it. Another light flare disturbs the air, and a great metallic breath is taken.

In. Out.

A trick of the light. Or the taken-for-granted truth. 

In. Out.

As the sun rises in the sky, heat stands in a haze above the surface. It is hungry to serve the unsuspecting. To consume because that is all it knows how to do.

In. Out. 

Shadows are sucked into the vortex of swelling heat. There is no escaping the grasp of hot, swelling, warping, metal, glinting, gleaming, taking, consuming, unforgiving. No life.

In. Out. 

Even when the sun descends. Even when the metal loses its spark, becomes another menacing shape in the dark.

In. Out.

Even then, it is just waiting. Waiting to be warmed again.

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