fourty five45.your grandmother’s wedding ring rests rusted on a white tiled sink, golden drips from faucets never fixed– it spreads green copper stains ruthlessly in the soap dish and fills the bathroom (really that whole dark little hall and out the window and into the ivy) with the smells of a merry-go-round game on a fairground half a century ago. the angel cake clouds that were once, like michaelangelo, painted on the ceiling have been darkened by waterstains and mold. they now look like an impartial texas storm, moody, grey, dark, and like their master’s cloudy grey eyes (no longer seeing much of anything) the beauty has actually g
Sta.sh
