by on June 15, 2022 :: 0 comments

The caramel of your eyes as rich as the custard I never had.
Your skin my quilt for years. Your irides mine, yet faint as
the fantasies I could never count on. The spice of your tresses
strong as my subterfuge. We have no cradlesong. Your breath
singes my body, giving birth to many lies and one truth: no,
is your way of saying yes.

editors note:

This after-entree enabling of enablers inflicts sweet suffering. – mh clay

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