wrapped
26–09–21
I wasn’t expecting to cry.

I laid a stake in theses cobbled streets the way an astronaut plants a flag on the moon.

Look at you Sarah, look at how you’ve grown: thick-skinned, silver tinsel in your hair, money just numbers floating in the air.  

A temporary installation.
A temporary summer.
A temporary life. 
Filed under:
poetry, paris, portraits




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