Comforting. I pot-lucked a magazine about sadness in fences, found your name dangling by an odd number. It was not like any other page: your hand reached out to pat mine
My dressing gown is shearing my skin I am sleep derived and overheating. The only way I can trick this pinprick of daylight that’s left is to treat myself like a child lie convincingly
I followed its arrow advice, on this, the hottest of days: quickly straddled the stile, left my dress panting where it fell, watched my white vest dissolve to sugared rice paper, licked
Sitting was an irritant, loathed: my fringe tickled my wrist , my back itched, my shin did too. Minutes were six weeks long, waiting for you to finish the eyebrows