They are on strike, taking revenge on me for standing too far for you to hear them shout.

They decided not to settle for anything less than perfect, and defined the term by the thickness, softness and sincerity of your lips. Food doesn’t excite them anymore, they treat it as a substitute, a lie, a drug meant to distract them and to obliterate your taste, so they refuse it by lacking any cravings — except you. Their secret plan is to kill any chemistry, controlling words, laughter, taste, and touch, refusing them if they are not FOR, FROM, OF… you.

They often smoke. Smoking reminds them of your taste. Silence is their favorite game. It gives them the certainty that your place will remain vacant for your return.

I know you won’t, but they don’t.

Shhh… My lips are sealed.

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