‘I forgot to tell you. How you tasted. No two are alike. Some taste of perfume, some of fruit, oil, slime, sugar or spice. You? You taste of stone and tears. Your alveoli are popping bubbles. Your bronchus, swinging on inky cartilage. I see it in there,’ his fingertip stroked my breastplate, lips moving against my temple. Your piquancy is of dead leaves, d'you know that?’
— Mar 07, 2019 12:21PM
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