I’m tired of your fires I need water soft spoken, leave the door ajar I’m not coming back Don’t come back, don’t come back I leave the door open photo / Maria Louceiro
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
Never give them what they want, when they want it
there is always something worth risking doom
Carry me into the sun.
I thought I told you not to come around here!