Your mouth is full of ash, but you manage to sputter out pretty words. If I unwrap all of them, they reek of lies and whispers about tearing down
And then we’re talking again; and I’m counting the time. None of it seems real, especially the winding lines deep in your skin. On your face. One second, one line.
I smile, your eyes linger on my lips.
A frail ray of sunlight hits you in the face, and the tea cup is knocked out of your hands.
The liquid escapes. You curse. Ash everywhere.