Madison Reid
leave fh 21
traces. On my shoulders. On my temples. I clutch your chin in one hand; eel for my earrings.
Art | Emma Wallen
First Glimpse Of You At Stansted
I was raised to mop men’s messes; yours are made of mine. Sandals smack steps stop right at your nose – sun streaks hazel, milks it for affection. Shapes stay steady. Shadows slip to sway, to wail, to wait. I let your collar stay crooked. Gleaming, all of it, low-lit and honeyed-pure – you