She spoke the language whose most words sounded like silk being ripped by the syncopated dancing steps of a high-heeled pair of boots, bleeding out by the flushes but tasting and running down as easy to the throat as honey; sometimes in doubled layers which cling to you like the remaining of a kiss coated in sweet venom.
I knew what she could do. She was Italian.
06/01/2017
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário
Obrigada pelo feedback!