it’s the sound of
tin under muffled...

Suppose this broken bodied man
once dreamt in avalanches of colour...

The campfire is comforting;
our palms are warmed...

it stirs
in the deepest...

I still find comfort
in the way you run your fingers...

it clings to your skin,
woven through the wool...

I am looking for something
I don't know or remember existing...

The sunrise is blushing pink,
seeping through gaps in the curtains...

Sometimes
I desire myself...

Is there a weakness
in caring so much...

butterflies
made a tomb of...

From a murky window, I watch you disappear
Through dusty picture albums, your face is not so...