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Three leaves of fresh sage bathing in hot water

A black cup.

Three pages ripped off of a blank note book found in Frida’s bedroom.

It smells like strawberry and freesias and teenage girlhood in there.

Outside the echo of rain drops. Inside layered voices like dripping silk.

Surfaces clash. This place sounds like a slow pulse.

Crystalline words muffling the senses.

Tongues disappear before meaning sets in.

Your edges remain soft.

The thought „I miss loud music and sweating with strangers in the dark” comes and goes.

Close and far. Almost there but not yet not yet not yet.

Our skins, not quite touching.

If I close my eyes I can almost see flashing lights. Pulsing.

But we wait. Neon and leather haunting the back of our closets and the front of our minds.

Be quiet. Not yet not yet.

Baby I’m unbothered.

Blink once if you feel the base stroking your heartbeat.

Darkness lurking just around the corner.

Are you ready to bang your head against invisible walls until you crack your skull open and let your thoughts race outwards like shooting stars? Blink twice and I’ll hold your hand.

You are brutally caressing my earlobes, spitting gentle murmurs, whispers hissing sweet secrets down my spine.

The last page remains untouched.