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Monday, August 30, 2010

Dís Kéntron

I think of you when I taste anything warm and bitter, like this coffee in a paper cup. Warm and bitter—that's how your blood would have tasted, spilled from your heart over the steering wheel and the windshield, over the bottom of the swimming pool and the white chenille coverlet. If I had been around when your heart exploded in the middle of the highway, I would have licked up your blood, but I was busy howling at the moon. Dogs eat their own vomit. Wolves need blood. Now I crave nothing but you.

2 comments:

  1. This comment has been removed by the author.

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  2. what i meant to say is:

    "yes. this is right."

    ReplyDelete

You are truly great.