The caramel of your eyes as rich as the custard I never had.

Your skin my quilt for years. I admit, this is love in another

language. Your irides mine, yet faint as the fantasies, I could

never count on. The spice of your tresses as strong as my subterfuge.

We have no cradlesong. Your breath singes my body, giving birth

to many lies and one truth: no, is your way of saying yes.



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