Last I heard she was living for forgiveness, wrapping herself in long strains of brown hair and London fog.
I heard she’s living in a loft by charing cross and occupies her days with dancing in the windows and listening for the sounds of the floor crumbling under her toes.
Now, I don’t talk to her much anymore, but last we spoke she had me on speaker while setting of the fire alarm. She told me to look for letters explaining the significance of moths in heaven, signed with sticky lipstick kisses.
When I asked about you she said she carved out your heart when you weren’t looking and fried thin slices of it up with garlic. She said the angels doesn’t talk to her anymore.
Last I heard she’s living for mercy, drawing ink hearts on the ceiling and trying to forget.