RainhaRaposaVermelha

The taste of blood hangs in the evening air. You flick your tongue and follow the unexpected trail through the green. As you slither over underbrush and between trees, other flavors drift through the air to your sensitive tongue, foreshadowing what you will see when you arrive. And then, at a break in the trees, you do. Green is everywhere painted with red. White and brown feathers dot the scene, accents in a macabre decor. You curl your lip. Jungle cats are messy eaters and rarely clean up after themselves. This one had apparently enjoyed an entire nest of  winglings. Mmmmm, wingling stuffed jungle cat sounds delicious, but alas, this cat i

If my love for you were smaller I would saddle the swiftest sparrow I could find,   and wing my way to where you are. Instead, the sun has grown small, its light   not enough, even with every drape thrown wide to dispel the gloom of rooms we once shared. If my love for you were smaller I would squeeze into a bottle, make a message of myself tossed by the tides until I washed up on your shore. Instead my taste-buds have shrunk, the flavor of my favorite dishes undetectable in your absence. Even chocolate turns stale in my mouth If my love for you were smaller I would play hopscotch on the calendar, skipping  across