(Untitled)

[chandelier]

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so sitting in the weave, running my fingers through and inbetween pieces of crème string, like when we were children, our knees bare and scrapping against the cold drab concrete of your drive-way, the back-yard, the front-garden. mother with the titling lemonade, the burning sun slips behind the clouds and we'd uncrumble chalk against the pavement

Comments

[colza]

<3