We turned a corner
Still I notice the white mole above
your lip. Shallow we breathe in
leather yew leaves. Branches slackened
by tomorrow’s dew. Like Cross Street
is a steam room and we are clean
white shrouding towels shawled
around each others’ breasts.
I move my hand long
so yours will follow, and though
this moment tastes of tequila soda
paracetamol pillowed on a fizzing tongue
amnesia… pull me in anyway.
What friendship? When we drop like moons
who miss the night. I mock the breeze
sweep your fringe aside. Ask your shameless
lips what they’re thinking.
Emily A. Taylor (she/her) is a writer based in London. She is the founder of the Queer Poetry Collective and The Poetry Society’s Islington Stanza. Her work has been published in Anthropocene, Metachrosis Literary Magazine, Pinhole Press, The Coalition for Digital Narratives, and is forthcoming in t’ART Magazine. She was nominated for the Best of the Net Prize 2024, and is pursuing an MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths. You can find her on Instagram @emraylot or Bluesky @emwrote.bsky.social