By: Grace Crouthamel A warm room somewhere, chapped lips and the taste of cigarettes still on my breath. A sliver of my being, callous but coarse – what little is left. I can offer you a fashionable loneliness the last laughs of a dying star a billion miles away, a few centimeters between a raindrop…Continue Reading But What Can I Offer You?
But What Can I Offer You?
