brittanybeth

Vena Cava Exposition Two fall asleep under one red giant and drift at a distance, to romance separate oceans. “Your bathing ankles are ivory breakwaters,” she comes round with a groan. Sometimes he neglects to darken his roots and she dissects his hair into wispy streams the colour of leaves, strewn underfoot, gilded carnival popcorn. At the crest of a Ferris Wheel he whiffs figs on a gust, thick like the scent of clotting syrup and her fingers grip as if to say ‘I know,’ or that she can smell white pepper on his neck. There are afternoons and twilights when they both catch the stench of chlorine on their wris