Sighs curl out her mouth like smoke- tendrils beckoning as so many fingers. It’s crass and brutal and he can’t help it. People talk about it the next day. How raw, how savage. Nobody does things like that. What are they?

And they fold themselves into each other like ghost stories ‘round a fire. So different, so vogue. Spilling secrets out of shaky teacups, giggling through tears they blend and have something we can never have. So on the surface.

Who are they? Their hearts pinned on their sleeves with needles- bleeding ink in blossoms over shoulders, arms, hips, hairy shins. They’ve forgotten need in their world of want- it’s all over them in points. So tragic, so couture.

They used to be us.