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Pomegranate
my skin and hers- all four corners of the earth sparkling some sweet lustre that my fingers pry and pluck like feathers.
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The freedom of the frog
the frog finds a gap in my skin; it sinks below- sits underneath, some huge bulge which i prod until it settles down
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Market
Warmth swelled up; a thick fog of colour and conversation binding like thread, winding through market isles until the air was bright. It was fine stitch work.
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Train Station
Dust drifted solemnly. It scattered itself on black top hats and on the shoulders of business suits.
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January 2019
It’s dark at 4.00 and my fingers are blue and red and numb and walking home feels just like it always does, only darker.
