yeoldefinch

I write on my half day, stand tall on my full day, flick the ashes from my corduroy jeans, with pock marks immortalised as burns – the full despair of misspent time. I curl up into a ball hereonafter, and move mountains, the forever – who would have thought – a meeting of hands that are…

By Leon Jean Baptiste Sabatier

There is a heart that beats, full of paperweights, and sweets. I think I remember where I last left it, perchance, somewhere under the stairs, or now ingrained and gritted into the streets.