The damp breeze brings me back to those nights,
night swimming after walking home from the bar.
Tarot cards and wine,
cigarettes and emptiness.
Dead bodies on road trips
and ghosts in the rearview mirror.
Your mom was always out,
her pool was always warm.
Crickets and glowing insects reignite the memories now,
the drumming in our chests
channeling phosphorescent waters.
Sirens seducing us back
to the unhuman-unholy-unknown.
When we were deliciously lost
and didn’t
give
a fuck.
Kristin Garth & Pink Plastic House a tiny journal 