Emily has long for wished to be a queen of writing, but is at most a baronet. They are definitely not a series of cats jammed into a sweater.
All you need do is beckon, gently. Gently, I take the gold on your palm to my lips. I pause, contemplate. As I swallow, you smile. The kernel dissolves and slides down my throat in a reversal of utterance, words dissolving into glottals and sibilants. My lungs are water and I cannot breathe until you place your palm on my cheek and the chill shocks me to a gasp. I have lost something, but I do not know what.