Tell me a story, you said—you’re a writer: Write me something beautiful. I looked right down through your wine-dark pupils into the milky night sky of your soul. I began to write out this story on your spine, tracing hieroglyphics on your neck, invisible ink of dead skin cells from my fingertips.
you were so quiet that you never woke me
you were so quiet that you never woke me
you were so quiet that you never woke me
Tell me a story, you said—you’re a writer: Write me something beautiful. I looked right down through your wine-dark pupils into the milky night sky of your soul. I began to write out this story on your spine, tracing hieroglyphics on your neck, invisible ink of dead skin cells from my fingertips.