We buried stories, the stars as a witness. There are more crinkles on the moon than our palms soaked in water for too long. Tonight is unsteady and staggering, we do not belong to our names.
Autumn is here.
Been collecting winter songs and pine needles. It’s easier than collecting snowflakes (tried to press some in my diary, they made the ink run and my thoughts disappeared. Have been thinking in blotches ever since). I wanted to preserve winter in a jar and lock it in my ribcage. Your voice tasted like holly and snow and sage.
