all my winter memories are amber colored, and taste like day- late birthday wishes.
something about the film they leave on my teeth makes me want to drive into the Sound, wash myself in sea salt until i am new and pink and can’t sense the fish slowly circling above my head like sub- aqueous vultures, with scaly wings outstretched. dreaming carvnivorous cotton candy dreams, as i’m sure vultures do. how disappointed they’ll be when they find me flavored with New Mexico dust and hasty upbringings. i should know; i’ve bitten my tongue before. i taste terrible.
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