Little hands. Two toy cars—which is your favourite?

No answer. I get it, no need to say another word.

Golden bowl cut, sweet knowing eyes;

precious quiet running laps around

our crossed legs. The wolves have gone,

they are looking for conkers in old groves.

Memories linger for longer than I wish and

in the shedding of apple-red leaves is another boy, 

quiet too, gentle too. His ears prick 

at the sound of trees sighing—this is all 

new to him—and a leaf brushes his cheek,

rosy and almost made of dew. He yawns 

and lays a flower petal head 

on a bed of unmaking and 

sleeps the sleep of softness. 

He dreams of toy cars.

There is never a favourite. 

I look away.

I look away. 

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Alfi Moss-White is an artist born and based in South London. Their writing stems from a place of meditation and observation, and can be found elsewhere in Seedlings Magazine, Buoy Press, and Sunspot Literary Journal.