The aftertaste is bittersweet.

The forlorn are wilfully sour creatures,
Gliding through this terrain of eggshells.
The intimacy of perfume and palms in perforation
Passé.

Heartstrings are tethered and torn, tugged and truffled
And left high and dry.
Words float like used feelings in the air between,
Subtleties so swift, overlooked on omnipotence.
A heat of uninhibited sentiment in unchartered manors,
A suffocation of sorts within confined euphemisms.

Comfortably numbed to the other,
The other masked in oblivion,
In possession of a history which precedes the pursuit of the lonely.
Leaving a longing for not lust but lychees.

Tequila tweaks the tortured.
Fortune favours not the flailing follies,
But lends itself to the not so visceral last goodbye.

The aftertaste is bittersweet.

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