fyn gula He walked up the mountain of flowers,
queen anne's lace with its fragile drop of blood nodding in the turgid breeze.
he saw them barefoot, their sundresses, costumes of july.
those three, each with a part of him in their eyes, or smile, or body.
he smiled, holding this memory of summer like the wild strawberries they clutched in their hands, the ones that stained their lips red as happiness.
what's it to you?
who go