Things this year pt. 3

Imagine for a moment a place you do not exist. 

Her hand flitted against his cheek like a bird’s wing; he could hear the rain tapping against the window.

He awoke to bells. The sound ringing across the square, down the street– its sticky stones– up into his window, where underneath swallows built mud and straw roosts like small wicker igloos. His sheets were damp and his scars ached along the curve of his calf, across the bridge of his nose, down the length of his forearm.

“You were awake last night,” he said to her, fishing a cigarette out of his trousers that lay bunched in a pile on the slate floor. There was grit between his toes.

“I was telling you a story,” she said, shifting slightly, looking at him.

“What was it about?”

“It was about a place far, far away.”

He grunted, lighting the cigarette with a match he scratched on the plaster wall, leaving another line in a increasingly complex sketch; a farmer, a field of wheat. 

“I’m sure it was beautiful,” he said lying back against sweat and sheets, running his hand down her back, down against her naked buttocks, hesitating a moment, and then beginning the slow crawl up her skin. 

“It was, it was very beautiful. But sad.”

He ran two fingers up her spine, his head propped in his hand.

“Tell it to me again.” 

“If I tell it to you again it will lose its meaning.”

“When I’m asleep?”

“When you’re asleep.”




Pisaro. Beuger. this place/is love Erstwhile


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