Under photos of Zaragoza and them her hands grind Moroccan tea the girl- with her fences built high belly button pierced, her face smelling of honey and green tea. She believes in energy and angels in sweet lavender and Eucalyptus but not in you. She’s been to Cambodia and back in her head- a pilgrimage …

Continue reading Remembering.



  Her soul is June's yellow telling mine about the sun fingers, white Galanthus bulbs turning me to Midas Gold. Her voice is like a naked mist danger concealed in an Alchemist's kiss her eyes are but dichroic glass so sickly sweet and opportune.