"His
memory tastes like rye whiskey. And skin. And spit.
The
kind of drink you’d mix on the hottest day of July. Dangerous, pungent, divine.
Together
we strike a match. Electric blue fire, set fire, to everything around us. And
while the flames consumed what we used to be we remained indifferent, locked
together, in a sweet destructive affair. Jumping from stone to stone, while
thunderclouds collapsed in delicious storm above our heads. Rye and I.
We are characters in a Tennessee Williams' secret diary. I am soft and slow and
bashful and brutal and evil and deeply despise fluorescent lights. He is
tender and raw and mysterious and brutal and evil and deeply loves to greet the
plush pink folds of my pussy in morning, surprised each time by how they appear
to blush when met with his gaze."
