true stories

both our hair had grown, slouchy sweaters being propped and pulled.
she dates investment bankers, and asks me to come outside so she can have a smoke.


and then it's morning, and im peering out from under covers, the snow has all melted and it's new year's eve day. where did the snow go, in the night?

sick day

the scene where Penelope Cruz is walking through the streets, eating fruit with a fork, and then she bumps into some friends, this scene made my eyes fill up with tears.
curled up on the couch, my head aching, trying to pretend i didn't know why i was crying.

these sheets are not my sheets. they're not his sheets either. these sheets are no mans land bedding, temporary refuge. crisp as we jump in and then thrown off in the early hours. the radiator switches over and then through the window a crack of sun from the whitewash, a lucky day. the dove grey walls, and the milky-tea sky, a pile of warm stripped duvet, blending the light into a false comfort.

then im waking up a second time and you are already gone. i dreamt your alarm, i thought, but really you just forgot your phone here on the floor.


the ways in which we remember sitting squarely with the ways in which we forget.

Corrine Day

RIP darling, x

sleeper train

two Parisians in my berth, sisters, their quiet french rising up short and sweet in the corners of the dark coach. we are speaking through shadows, this stranger, she mutters, you are strong Erin.

then 3 hours at the border at 3 am, and i'm leaning way out the window, i'm looking up and away, the morning is rushing by me. hello Bulgaria, hello sunflowers.

i'm quicker than the wind

it's about to go crosshore, he said, and your eyes reflect the ocean, and me.

Gone Fishin'