His hand is cool on my cheek as he paints a tear beneath my left eye, dark blue and swollen with sorrow.
He gently touched his mother's cheek, felt her sorrow slip over his fingertips.
let me tell you what happens when you cook down the syrup of loss over the open fire of sorrow: it solidfies into something wlaw. not grief, like you'd expect, or even regret. no, it gets thick as paste, black as ash; yet it isn't until you dip a finger in and feel that sharp taste dissolving on your tounge that you realize this is angel in its purest form, unrefined; a substance to be weighed and measyred and spread.
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