Wide open spaces

Brittle voices between the real and the words like greaseproof paper that’s caught at the edges. Shivers across the hills and in the city restless breaths that snag on a story that will never be yours. The wind’s piling high, sighing in the gaps, bruising. We can’t all go back. There’s a limit to how fast your feet can go prickling like heat underneath fingernails, the bottom of your heart is wide open, sinking, spent.

Matilda Webb