• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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You are the sharpness of an orange on Winter’s tongue. Promises broken. Dreams on the wings of crushed moths.
The acrobat bending forwards, bending backwards without complaint.
A taut string on a violin for a bow to caress. A vibration of pain and ecstasy.
You are the black hole. Your infinite darkness poised to devour all the precious things squirreled away for rainy days.
The cruel mistress who breaks spirits every now and then, only to sprinkle water on parched lips.
For you are compromise, the unsatisfactory solution to an unsolvable conundrum.