Authors

The Lighthouse and the Mechanic

The two of us still pretending to be butterflies, holed up in our terraced cocoon for weeks watching the fists of clouds paint the sky winter white.

History

is the truant in my sheets / barely sixteen / I am / telling fibs to stay home with my thoughts / with my feet tucked in the pockets of sleep /

Aftermath

I believe in some hour threaded through all the years where you still kiss my face of lemon rind and rough hessian, boulder-wide, fish-scaled, round as a copper coin.