I've been touching wood a lot because of recent vivid dreams watched that dead baby's body rot the world unravel at the seams London's waiting up ahead tapping at her watch
the boy who mouthed over your perculiar judges knows better than them of your faults and takes out his iron to flatten your creases to smooth your flaws the mismatched friendship
I can't feel pain the way you do, I guess it's not in my DNA. Neither's humour, isn't that true? Or what is it that you want me to say? And you're genetically predisposed
Hand plunged deep Into foamy, disarrayed, cleanest of all messes. -Fresh, citrusy, lukewarm- Stings her scratched up knuckles. Tired fingers handle thickly cut plates and wooden spoons
So seep in midnight oil spill, drip between the twists and turns, nooks and crannies, delicate carriageways, intricate corridoors, thought roads. Burrow deep and spread like