by Nicole Jacobsen
His living room is a vivarium full of filtered sunshine gasping through storm clouds, releasing rain that trembles puddles on cement, warping sky. Water circles clutch glass like suctioned starfish, we kiss as he passes. I scratch poetry between blue lines, deliberating the nucleus of a syllable. Menthol breeze ripples my arms and small hairs, raising bubble wrap skin. Synaesthesia insists his footsteps are pine. I’m fine here, while he works, watching peace lilies animate on the table, my body creaking like a new home beginning to settle. Nicole Jacobsen is a Brisbane artist, writer, poet, and aspiring editor who regularly finds herself re-befuddled by the difference between who and whom. Her background in Psychology emerges through character studies, obsessive bouts of self-reflection, and recurrent themes of mental health in her work.
1 Comment
Erica
9/1/2023 08:12:54 pm
Oh wow 😍 I feel like a fly on the wall
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