There it is.
That sick, sick thirst.
In my bone dry throat, in my desert lungs. I lick my charcoal lips with this sandpaper tongue, and I taste cinders and sand.
There you are.
My sweet, sweet soul.
You’re a sopping wet sponge, saturated and soft. I’m gonna sink my fingers in and squeeze. I’m gonna purse these lips and suck you dry.
Until you’re a bone dry throat. Until you’re cinders and sand.
Passing along this sick, sick thirst.