He was moonlit pedestal, the
pinnacle of a garden overgrown with blackberry and nasturtium.
The fireplace was lined with tiles
boasting suggestive detailing all buttocks and bosom of peasants amongst pears
and bluebells, they concealed in their lacquered slip our stories, those
unfolded on the floor before them.
Burn marks and terrorism, wistful
goodbyes and dawn break.
Together we slept always apart,
contorted bruxism atop limp pillows, arms clutched in a primordial defense.
In slumber we would apologize with
our limbs, using our strength for comfort rather than harm, howling silently
for a desperate understanding.
- Clara Bradley x Alan Weedon