It's dead, she says, clasping your hand in hers, the whole damn place is dead. Who cares if there are parakeets, or ferns, or laurel if there's not even a damn shower head? Who cares about the bark and who gives a damn about a lark when there's not a croissant in sight? There could be… Continue reading Heartwood
Tag: Writing
Wheezing Roses
You say “There’s no air in this coffee shop love. Though I wheeze with my bellows, when I find you in canary yellow you're the colour of my insides, don't you know, love?" . What you haven't figured out, is that, without a doubt, though you throw away your Oolong I've stained you now, throughout. I… Continue reading Wheezing Roses
