Courtlen Beckett

In Her Hips, I see Revolutions

Like a monk with prayer beads, her absentminded fingers rolled the tiny links of her small silver chain. Wrapped around her palm the necklace had become as much of a fixture as her fingers since she last saw her. The soles of her boots shifted inky ash and dust as she took a seat on the frame of a blown out window, high above the hollow city.