She hadn't spoke in a year, instead the wound had passed through skin to some other place of residence. Layered over until it was lost. Each year dimming with uncertainty, forming under words, like a sore that had been forgot. The thing had a heaviness- like joy drawn down through the layers, till it separated, and then removed it's self completely,, So that in the end only the surface was speaking through a beleaguered front of empty actions, like light dying and fading slowly- like as a bruise within a scar.
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