Sick sweet

Winter night sternly frowned at my doorstep; the sick sweet December air numbed my lips with its cold kisses. Unease muffled around me like a worn out pashmina shawl. The feeble wanderings of my brain guided me to his faded aisles, yet again. Dropping my exhaustion with ice cubes in the bitter whiskey, the despair for love grew in me. It had been long since I had tasted the salt of my tears.

His cold touch sweated my body, his rough hands wounded my bosom, and his faint red lips swelled mine. Wounded whispers of my heart in his ears left unheard, I watched our love withering leaf by leaf.

How bitter was it to taste his smoke stench fingers, how savagely suppressing the weight of his bony body on mine. How addictive his coaxing me to sleep, how compelling his beguiling hazel eyes.

He’d stroke my cold feet, hold them close to his chest, kiss them fondly and I’d smile at its brief stay. Turning off the lights, how much he loved the darkness, and darkness he became. The chimes, the sickening cold lights, the pale snow on the mountains, the blood red wine, everything plunged me back to him. The better days of life were ours, the worst mine and mine alone.

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