How I stood on the glittering brink holding out a branch for you to grab. How you spit in my eye. The nightingales don’t sing where you’re going. I live now in a cave full of paper mache and feral mirth. You bury your name in ash and call it a bath.
How I stood on the glittering brink holding out a branch for you to grab. How you spit in my eye. The nightingales don’t sing where you’re going. I live now in a cave full of paper mache and feral mirth. You bury your name in ash and call it a bath.
Miniature Moon 