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Swansong

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.