STARDUST RUMOURS.

BELIEVE ME WHEN I SAY YOU'LL MAKE IT TO THE STARS.

[ ☆彡 ]

a doe-eyed angel lays in a midsummer's garden of citric confessions and blushed carnations. she talks about how the cotton foamed clouds remind her of barbecue grilled peaches and polaroid snaps of an open balcony somewhere in brooklyn with ruby roses pressed between the inked pages of an old-fashioned paperback and 80's song lyrics stitched onto thrift store pockets. she traces the earth's hymns and urban manifestations into her humbling hands and plucks oil spilled obscenities from blanched roots with the same forceps she mends cherry stem heartstrings on weekends with. her body collides into the honey melon sun and all the ozone's virgin oaths drown in wishful wine bottles, the taste of ripened love and primrose berries paints a dreamy panorama across a rustic scape. half past 6, the silk spun poppies bruise and bloom in contours of ceramic cheekbones and the golden hour tides turn and churn against freshwater feet. she runs her french polished fingertips through frayed vines as they lap at the cedar maple sap dripping down her saltwater skin and it feels like pickpocketing stars on top of moving trains and reciting shakespeare under unfinished bridges and sinking in 24-carat conversations on skyscraper rooftops. her soul asks for forgiveness through the glossed lips of platonic angst and the center of the world crumbles into a paperweight paradox of herbal wisdom and opioid galaxies. she is all love notes left on doorsteps and heroin heartbeats strung on street lamps and drunken voicemails tangled in telephone lines. she is me, she is you, she is us.