Her hair smelled of hay,
summer rain and first kisses;
breathless, petrichor.
His fingers trembled
childhood’s last tattoo, across
her pale, arching spine.
Ryan Stone
too much coffee, too little sleep, a love of words…
Her hair smelled of hay,
summer rain and first kisses;
breathless, petrichor.
His fingers trembled
childhood’s last tattoo, across
her pale, arching spine.
Ryan Stone