Thin layers of ash everywhere. On the walls. Spread across leaves. Heavy across the pavement. Everywhere I lay my hands, I pull back skin that smells of powdered flames. This summer's paper wasps brood sleepily. Miles of fires reflected in the calescent-crescent moon. Swaddled in haze as the evening turns purple. I lay on graying grass, and fall asleep with slowly fracturing lungs. Inhaling the world, and waiting for stars that never come.
11:38 p.m. - 2020-08-26
Recent entries:
Thanking the Pandemonium - 2020-11-26
Simplicity of Sometimes - 2020-11-25
Bubblebeams - 2020-11-18
Red Blue Green Purple - 2020-11-11
Too Young to Descend - 2020-11-11
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