Torn edges and brown mold. The paper lay crumpled. The paper was brown. Brown at the edges. Tears in the middle. It was his handwriting.
The swirls of her fingertip stamped it over and over. And just like that, his writing came to life. Fixed. All was fixed.
And the ink refilled.
The moon smiles graciously,
in the form of your beauty,
in the form of your grace.
In the form of your imperfections,
which I crave to carve,
violently into my own skin.
To know the soul and its senses,
through the vessel of which no words
could perfectly embody.
Your skin may not bear,
the colour of milk,
but still,
I drink you.
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The Solstice Daughters
FantasyHighest Rank: #98 in Fantasy | #27 projectbadboys | #138 fiction 'Hot air from their mouths entangled between the small proximity of their flushed faces. His dagger pressed dangerously into her scarlet dripping throat. Her dagger slit into the...
