Henry’s fingers bleed through the torn calluses as he sips Irish coffee and grimaces with the pain… “you are a poet” he says “how can this be beautiful?” as he pushes the finger stained cup towards the salt shaker and sugar… I say softly, “He left his bloody fingerprints on her throat, with icy hands on shoulders bare he won her heart…”
This is quite eerie, and I sure do like it.
ReplyDelete