persephone rare. tart. the scent of it lingers— star jasmine and, dare i say honey? a citrus whisper of some coy oranges, still dressing, pulling a marmalade sheath over peely green lungs gulping now-tepid air that the cold has fled from— should they expand to the brink, they will chill again icy inhalation, a knife to the chest i dream of her kisses. night after night until i do not dream at all. and the pollen and cigarettes make me cough but the rasp in my throat feels sweet winter has flown the coop and alas the flesh between my ribs begins to defrost
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