The Feed

meadows in march, the water still and steady; daisies under picnic blankets. we fall in love, we don’t think we’ll ever be the same....

your skin covered in honey, sickly sweet blushing in the lamplight, your hands stick to my stomach as if by glue, as if you’re mine....

we were beautiful together: an act of creation crafted with calloused hands and too much hope. there was a moment, that winter, where i...