Subtle Hints

“Trust me, please?”

she says, sprinkling in yearning with a fine hand.
He likes it mildly flavoured, not heavily spiced.

“I trust you implicitly”

he replies.

And she wonders why that hurts worse.

The heart, little glass charm, strung up inside body of dust.
It scratches, chips, it even crumbles but it never gets tougher.

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