Her hands were soft and delicate, a carnivore's feast.
The burning ember captivated her gaze, too numb to notice.
Kyoto is a fragile porcelain bowl, cradling centuries of memories.
“Please, let’s go to Kyoto.”
Her eyes meet mine, too lost to be here.
“That’s not my name?”
You never quite listen to me no matter how much I speak. maybe our mouths would be better sewn shut then to let any meaning escape our lips.