a love for spearmint, for the burgundy red
They reverberate their
under the withered moon of catastrophe
a strain on the blueberry sky.
Eleanor pauses in her tracks, sucking in a breath as she turns not to face the man, but the arched windows that line the passage.
Aquitaine stretches out before her, its beauty incomparable to filthy, cramped Paris.
Bonjour, mon amour! I think perhaps you are the muse I’ve been searching for.
The first child born to a god brought the moon back.
the sky’s sparkling with fractured light
the champagne has bubbled our heads
A moth in the sink is
Not a broccoli
You are still there.
The tiger awakens as you grip the bars and use them to propel you into a 360-degree jump.
Beads of sweat nestle on your neck and your heart swells in its cage.