sneaking love under baby pianos for love … I’d rather not express. Soft tears soft tears, back then. photo / Maéva Lecoq writing / Kendall Hill
Fresh are the berries that we use to pick, from our daydream valleys. Filled with pauses and short breaths, when we roll in the dusty paths. photo / Piero Donadeo writing / Kendall Hill
J’aime the little wooden matchsticks (allumettes!) with rose-colored combustive tips, which I light the gas stove with to make café au lait in the morning
If you are to hold me hold me as a gun
Not the moan but the angle of a moan
I am hungry for myself
Never give them what they want, when they want it
How do you feel in moonrise, the stomach growl of life slowly closing?
We become birds, poems.
there is always something worth risking doom