Pressing the scarf and its various blues to his face, the silk feels soothingly cool, though he is barely able to recognize the fading scent of her L’Air du Temps

Her voice is silk over gravel
sweet agony
As he submits, she knots the fabric around his wrists.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but I know I want it to be spelled right and punctuated correctly. I guess that’s something.

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