phigaro
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you're not dead, you're sleeping.


Notes

so this was how it felt like. she wanted to ask, but every word dissolved into a fragmented smile to reassure, just as she smiled all the time when spoken to. and spoke they did. 'sorry', they'd said. 'sorry for your loss, clover.'

but clover had not wanted sorry's. clover had wanted a cottage in the meadows of isle of skye with a swing from a tree in a garden and a postbox by the whitewashed gate to read kirkpatricks. she had wanted clement's palm on her cheek, gentler than a summer breeze, his lips on the pale birthmark under her left earlobe. her name, tucked in his mouth, as if the syllables would melt on his tongue and diffuse into his very existence.

(his name, clenched between her teeth, would burn hers to ashes.)

note: album cover by slevin aaron.


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