Crunchy turtle Sunday mornings. Cold coffee sips and house plants swaying green in cool Spring window breeze. Swollen unsure memories pore over the night before. A small kiss, a rip in your favourite old t-shirt, accidentally smashed highball glass. Regretful rolling into wistful, the soft ache in the skull pulsing out questions. Denim and plaid clad reaper sits in a chair close by, whispering dead-leaf nostalgic elegies. Stained and heavy curtains billow while dust motes drift on yellow beams. WC
