Sublimity in print.

The sound of the fire crackling while you chop heads of garlic and onion in the kitchen takes me back to the night I saw you standing behind the restaurant, underneath the moonlight, shadows all in the right places. The silence of the night did little to mask the beating of my heart, rabid and violent; fumes of sordidness and passion overcame my senses. All I knew was I stood there, moonlit backdrop hiding the truth that yes—I did indeed think of burying myself deep inside; I did indeed think of hiding underneath the flaps of your skin, of picking your ribs apart and crawling to the space next to where your heart beats. It wasn’t until green veins and champagne wine that stained your neck did I realize how easy it was for you to run away, and how difficult it was for me not to stay.

 

Dear, if you allow me to, let me hold your feet and arms close; let me run my tongue and let me gnash my teeth as I watch muscles separate from bone and smell the putrid canals of our hometown as butter coat your fingers, topped with a hearty amount of fried garlic cloves so I may smell like you from the inside and out.

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Future cavalier to a necromancer. Currently a dreamer. 

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