Sepia

We stood side by side, hands buried into our pockets, the cold biting into our oversized sweaters.

Ochre sand dunes stretched on either side of us, the road leading to a patchwork settlement with blue and red houses and cross-hatched vegetation.

Silvery scrubs spread their curling fingers over the edges of the dunes, overbearing but delicate at the same time.

It seemed like the sort of place where the sky was a different color each day.

That evening, there was a sepia filter on the world.

Our fingertips were grazed mustard, the fleeting wind tickled our bare necks and the clouds were deep orange wisps of setting sun.

The road seemed to stretch on forever, I could only wonder where it would take us.

I also knew we would never find out.

We were lost, we had to find our way back home.

But the beauty of it all was quicksand to our raging hearts, and perhaps we stayed longer than we should have.

Things are rarely beautiful when they are stretched to the point of distortion.

And I know I should have turned around and walked away, left you to breath in the fading sunlight alone; but I couldn’t bring myself to.

Not even when the air was sepia no longer and the sky turned frigid and my breaths were wispy and visible.

It was too late then, I knew.

The cold braved my woolen armor and sank it’s ice-cold teeth into my skin and I, I crumbled under the heap of forbidden beauty and my unwillingness to let it go.

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