𝓓𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓼𝓮𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓭𝓾𝓼𝓽 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓭𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓰? 𝓔𝓪𝓬𝓱 𝓲𝓼 𝓪 𝓼𝓸𝓾𝓵—𝓪 𝓯𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓼𝓹𝓪𝓻𝓴𝓑𝓸𝓻𝓷 𝓸𝓯 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓪 𝔀𝓪𝓵𝓽𝔃 𝓮𝓹𝓱𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓪𝓵 𝓘𝓲𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓺𝓾𝓲𝓮𝓽 𝓪𝓲𝓻 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓼𝓲𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓻𝓸𝓸𝓶.

Wintermorn. The sky, a muted bowl of forgotten pewter, stretches tight over the sleeping world. The air is so still, so cold, that breath crystallizes instantly, dissolving into ghost-smoke that vanishes before reaching the stars. It is the deep,...

With the anatomy of a kiss, a momentary freshnessbefore the descent. A sharp intake of breath settling in the skin, with a faint, undeniable musk of what-was. The bright, metallic ting of a scalpel, with a traceof haunting tongue.

A scent of decadence does not merely arrive; it haunts, it drifts,a phantom presence unbound by walls: a fragrance cloying,overripe sweetness of her peach, past its prime. Its flesh,collapsing into a syrupy, oblivion, exhaling its vermouth.As the air grows...

His mind became my closet, listening to all the acrimonious BS, at the Pentecostal show, By the laying his hands on my pillow case at 3 am—somehow the scent of bourbon and Cheetos linger. He pulled his pecker too many...