bourdeaux furtively drips from the tip of our ascetic tongues, marmalade and sticky-sap syrup are passed around the ivory gazebo of the midsummer villa, maurice ravel plays faintly from the aged turntable, drunkards clam around the bordering shore where the balmy, sweet air is seduced by the vast and seemingly never-ending, ongoing briny to turn the wind to salt, and so are we; enticed, by the pearl that is the craterous moon and the way the sea yields only for her.
it is a dance, but here, libidinous teenagers are condemned for spiking the village's holy wells with their blood of passion; blood of youth.
they do not know of her ashen eyes, o empathy-wide, and her honeyed, sun-tainted locks that tumble and sway down the omen of her spine, how wedged under her alabaster flesh and between the ridges of sinewy, white bone are messages of divinity;
precursors to even this story.
YOU ARE READING
HOLY IS THE SIN
Romanceceleste and sara fall in love in martigues, a small town in southern france, in the summer of 1979.
