Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Micah Preite
Should we tell them
They think the sun loves them
Flower devoured by the money maker
Dying light from the after noon coming for you
The night before we killed the lights
Just something resembling a part of it
Leaving us exposed around are ankles
Behind the faces going home