That burnt plastic taste ghosts the folded tongue, like kissing an electrical fire, like running the heater of my old Duster to keep it from overheating on some long ago summer of my former life. The dregs of hot black coffee ground cold, and I am scratching at my dry flesh with these cracked hands. Typing typos and sealing constellations as I go. Licking the rubble from cracked lips. Tasting the remainders, remaining tasteless and bitterly still.
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