Ebony Bell

Oil paint on paper sewn with string.

This isn’t what i meant when i said home but it’s what my mum gave me. Red wood box, coffee table, lounge. Tarnishing happens when speaking is siphoned through fingertips.

Ocean water spits all the way to my doorstep and i smell it in my sleep. You can see the waves from both their houses. Mum's and dad's slice of viridian, her right eye. I see from the balcony light flirting with the edges of misshapen waves, a clutter of blue (identical). Homogenised proof of sky. It doesn’t make sense to say the light is piercing, really it’s just stumbling through.