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(she’s not all that fond of feet) .. The ticking of the clock is off; her feet are tired, and waning. tickTOCK, clickCLACK. Creep close, stand back. The only thing she craves is sea, a salted skin for staining. Moon … Continue reading
.. Dance with me? Lull me milky sweet into a quiet bubble of hope, a grin of grace. Melt the sky in a skillet shimmertwist of golden hue. Skip your reflective stones across this scrim, green with wanting. Breeze me … Continue reading
… she’s of that kind that likes ink, the spill of it, the thrill of it, the will of it to smear itself to page in love or tears or rage. she’s cut from indigo sky-cloth, swathed in cloudskin. Trimmed … Continue reading
.. i am a monument of broken. spill of sea salt, smudge of ink, pink eraser dust apricot sky. i lie in soft tones of intricate eggshell blue. i mourn no thing; these cracks are where the last long golden … Continue reading