As a gift, you laid upon my dry palm a single bleeding rose with its old thorns. Some sense of relief washed over my fears when your red lips etched to your ears. No sighs but dreamlike escaped my rattled lips.
I froze when I felt the breaths between my teeth turned to ash. A soothing laughter erupted from your mouth—you had never yearned this loud before. Thousands of storms crepitated into my veins. “Mine never thawed,” you whispered before the light of the dusk took you from me.
Broken salted liquids embraced the floods of blood on my palm—the maroon waters from either the thorns of your desire or mine.
WORD COUNT: 113
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