Gothic eyes full of unbearable black. She hums La fille aux cheveux de lin, collects bones and heather. Wellingtons on river moss. You hear her with the larks. Lips pursed, as if to kiss. Heaven and hell are in her arms. She shows up late, ever so slightly. You half-remember her, rack your brain from where. Drunk on toast and marmalade; she takes coffee without a mask, unbuttoned. Part raven. Part swan. Nearly a wife. Flaxen hair with a ridge of dark.
Posted on: Sun, 21 Sep 2014 16:06:15 +0000
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