Graphic by Vinicius “amnx” Amano
I wait on the call small blood moon in my palm when her voice turns my ears strawberry red it’s what I ought to hear collect the rough syllables against my tongue I love you might—I think—perhaps crunches an ache in between my teeth falls into place like a crumple, relief caterpillar on a leaf there are pieces of her everywhere and I am rotting in September heat my favourite fever dream