There is something quiet and empty about his mouth– no river of words running thoughtless from between his teeth. There is a desert that waits on his tongue and there is nothing to water it, no cool rain to let even cactus flowers bloom full and pink in his grief. The sun is angry and blinding in his periphery and all he can do is flex his fingers and wonder why he can still taste sand and salt when all he really wants, anymore, is to remember how his laugh tasted; how his smile felt.

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