it's like trying to swallow my own tongue. thoughts of the memory of your hair ring my insides dumb. like an unstruck bell. and if i could, reduce the life we lead into pocket-sized picture postcards. i would. shrink you into something more manageable. less loud. and i could fill us up with nonsense words. mail them off to foreign lovers. and strangers.

cherry bowls and nightmare hummingbird kitchens and radiator death cab rides.

with love, and always your,

imogen
xx
xx