The door slams, a picture plummets to the floor, tears leak onto my cheeks. This time I’ve done it. He’s gone. He’s gone and he’s …
The door opens. The temperature drops. by Emma Bovill
after Bon Iver You hold a book in your hands: oven-baked pages. home-stitched spine. handwritten print. You daft songbird, if you didn’t know a sharp …