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Some kisses were said to feel like fireworks. His felt like a slow-drip anesthetic, silently siphoning my senses, until all I could smell, taste, and feel was him.
“You’re a sickness inside of me that begs never to be cured. Infecting me with this unshakable craving for things I shouldn’t want.”
She was the warmth of the sun on a cold and rotting corpse. The first breath after a lifetime of death.
Love was also a sickness. An incurable disease. The kind that crawled inside the muscles and bones, and persisted long after death.
