SelfPub: Between our lips...

The four horsemen of the apocalypse meet between our lips, the disintegration of the world into atoms, when fingers slide over heated skin, reaching the garters of stockings, along which a gap spreads like a distorting snake, because thin threads, iridescent in the light of candle flame with a cold radiance, are not able to withstand skillful and powerful touches, like veins ringing with monstrous adrenaline when you find yourself in me. The sweetness of linden honey and the bitterness of wormwood juice, the constellations of blue on the skin - you taste me as if I were the doom of cyanide and sweet death, poisoning the body with spores of an unprecedented disease.