bite into an overripe mango and it stains my fingers. it's when the kettle screams, and no one's there to hear my small catastrophes. it's in the echo of my own voice, bouncing around an empty room, waiting for someone to sit still enough to catch it.
i miss that, the way him glance tasted like thyme and late apologies, like lemon pith and cotton left too long in the sun. i miss how he held space like a fruit holds seed - not desperate, just inevitable. so no, it's not 2am, when i think of him it's when i
the way the opera house was just sitting there being architectural royalty while i was fighting for my life not to drop this ice cream. not me kneeling on the pavement like i was proposing to the harbour bridge. qvb looking expensive as usual.
Day in Sydney:
• eat ice cream
• point at architecture
• almost get hit by a van
• become one with the harbour
no notes. 10/10 city.
would get sun in my eyes again.