The last summer

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I remember the light that shone, in what appeared to be a small chamber of walls. The walls that seem to shrink the space with time, as did the waxy candle, being eaten away little by little, lightening up more and more, as though trying to mask things being lost, with shiny things which lit up with little effort.

I remember little things which lit up my days, adding aroma to my morning cup of coffee, which seem to be leaving an increased essence with every sip, that is taken in. Every sip opening up a bit of the scratchy insides of the cup, showing the cracks well hidden, with an almost devilish precision. An aroma rich enough for a lifetime, a lifetime long enough, or may be, just enough.

I remember the lifetime, which seemed long, not long ago;  lifetime that seems to have left a rich aftertaste, occasionally hinting flavors, sweet, that refuse to turn sour with time.

Sour, they should have been, foul, it should have smelt, dark, it should have ended.

Alas, I still remember the light.

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