yeoldefinch

Something makes her day like a trawling net, and she tries to understand in a rational manner – this time. There is a morning pain, not that of the fertile kind. More around the chest, to the left. She cups the little red seed, in her morning hands … droplets of her dew seep through…

Limp petals drench her forehead, a million millipedes stamp their feet. Ears ring with impatience, but gliding, forcefully, cascading hopefully. Inky belongings, moving and shifting, apprehending the next part of the future … holding. Green rubbery stems, jolt their wings into the bedroom air. Mobiles swing in unison. A soporific night kiss, curling into the…

Dappled. Freckled. On the train to Camden, with a bottle of last minuteness.