Pastel boho blog
When I think of your mouth, I remember the way we were taught
in psychology class that everyone dreams thousands of different tales
at night, even if we wake up at the exact same moment the thread
of memory falls away from us, and we are left clutching desperately
at translucent strings of thought that melt away like ether.
I think of the white skin of your shoulders in the car, shining
through dark cloth like beacons of light transmitted in Morse code
from a lighthouse, our bodies stumbling up and over one another
in the backstreat. How love was like fucking, until the two
fell into one another and stuck, Siamese twins
destined to remain together until the end of time.
You read with the light on,
a moth burning itself to death against a lamp,
a suicide due to carbon monoxide poisoning. The dark red
entrance there, where our tongues met and held, speaking
a language so fluently, not French, exactly,
more like Russian, Gaelic, the kind of language that comes
when two people run out of words for talking
and have to resort to feeling instead.
'The girl who is a coffee monster'
I lose a little of me in everyone.
Fiber and paint colab with Rhiannon Platt.