what new york used to be,

by Rachel Lynch in


Crawling under the lovers enclave, it will not leave you. Soft to the touch, autumn skin is haunting. There are things written under the covers. Find the ground,  the leaves are falling but we are under the fur leopard blanket. The ocean is so still, it is turning the blue of your eyes. Rich dark lips of desert mauve, please beware. This season comes and goes swiftly in a faint and fleeting  scent of warm cinnamon. Crisp is the chill but the skin harvests warmth. The gothic mansion is not for hibernation keeps.