This season began when the dogs curled up in the sand in the late afternoon, when the sun on the field seemed like lovers of a long long time in an embrace at the end of a long day at years end trying to forget a year long agony just before the lights came on and we sat around the tv. Me my skin turns to chalk and my wet palm I run over it to wipe the marks that my nails have left. Mosquitoes gather with the gathering black over my head and moan a solemn hymn of thanksgiving; for blood and for human beings. The nights are cavernous deep and when I shout after you just before you turned the corner my voice echoed how much this night is lonely. Seeking warmth thirstily I wrap my fingers around the two rupee cup of tea like I can forever enclose this warmth and touch pink carnations to bloom on my pale ashen cheeks. The tiny blades in the air nip the skin off the lips and I suck onto them pondering the taste of blood through a very thin film. and I am entombed in layers of wool packed like a box for the Christmas eve but no theres no toffee inside. A dry heat kept from the dry cold.