northern downpour.

"The ink is running towards the page, its chasing off the days look back at both feet and that winding knee. I missed your skin when you were east, you clicked your heels and wished for me. Through playful lips made of yarn, that fragile capricorn unravelled words like moths upon old scarves. I know the worlds a broken bone.

But melt your headaches call it home."

-Ryan Ross