The Golden Harbor
The water is too much. I know this because the tremor in your fingers matches the rattle in your chest, a syncopated rhythm that has become the only music in this stone-walled room. You ask for it, your voice a dry rasp that scrapes against the silence, and I hold the glass steady, watching the condensation bead and fall onto the cracked tile. I refuse. To give you the water is to break the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima