It is Friday, ashen-eyed. Bleak is a blade laid down across my tongue. Hollow logs. The sudden silence around a corner. Where will I plant my feet in this? How will I open my hands?
Telling: Streams & Logs
Telling: Streams & Logs
It is Friday, ashen-eyed. Bleak is a blade laid down across my tongue. Hollow logs. The sudden silence around a corner. Where will I plant my feet in this? How will I open my hands?