I can't bear to throw out the dead flowers:
When I dropped the bunch in the compost this morning,
the one
still alive
fell
from
the
group
and bounced off my shoe.
Its soft pink head looked as silky as my hair was in your hands.
A silk bud put to sleep in a palm.
I pick it up
and slip it in my pocket.
I keep things a little longer than I should sometimes.
The Age of Discord The refugee’s home is my home But it only became my home when the refugee thanked me for it This is the Age of Discord, the Fourth Age For the refugee in the Migrant Kingdom The hom
In the Smoking Area Cristina Rizzo “You ok?” He scares me. His voice is hugged by the cushioned music from inside the club. My ears feel trapped under years of fabric. “Yeah, I was just feeling a bit
To be the moon is what he wanted me to be. round serene A face hovering over the cradle at night but when he became my sun, his he
