lye and pirozhki and cool slabs of stone pressing divots into the backs of bare thighs, one long night seeping into sticky dawn, 100 ways to say hello! and none of them being the lullaby crushed against your skull, peony-stained mouths and crumbling brick walls and a dozen heartbeats sinking to the pit of your stomach, dream-eaters and star-slurpers gambling on dead trees, bop curiosity and weirdhotgood and a syrupy smile burnt to the back of your neck, something sick-red pushing its way through the fog, shadow-watchers swallowing tumble-weeds whole in the distance, the watery street you’re lying on twisting and everything tipping onto its side.
Katherine Pitré
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