Title: Optional

Text: Love was a promise made of smoke in a copse of frozen trees, a bone cold and older than our bodies slowly floating in the sea. Every morning there were planes, the shiny blades of pagan angels, in our fathers' skies. Every evening I would watch her hold the pillow tight against her hollows, her unholy child. I was still a beggar shaking out my stolen coat among the angry cemetery leaves when they caught the king beneath the borrowed car, righteous, drunk, and fumbling for the royal keys. Jeder Absatz wird ein Test sein.

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