#104

my last watercolor calls herself a fake. studio is contraction for oblong walls talking to themselves all day. there is a window half-shuttered; not a living soul. a sprig of geranium bleaches itself in the dust. below, slate roofs sun themselves shamelessly.

winter is the taste of burnt sugar. how it clings to my palate with the tenacity of a five year old! my skin wears your laughter in her tepid gouache folds. look, these are my bones. and this is me lying naked across the coldness of your heart.

remember my eyes?

they can still set fire to the rain.

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