Polish and Spit

The Discovery

One day, I don't remember which, you send us away. For the first time we are banished to our rooms, to think about, whatever we thought about then. And you feed me an excuse, which I swallow,

'Find Me', It Read,

'Find Me', It Read, the first love heart that ever addressed me. I am a romantic. Not old or new. Not an old romantic, waiting to be a wife. Not a new romantic, crossing genders with lipstick.

Daydreaming Before Dawn

Up, past sleep, we have found ourselves existing somewhere we do not. Heads make pillows of other things, shoulders and intimate conversations. Nothing is fixed, walls fall away, time slips to the floor. Here