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Dalas Kruger When The Tūi Call The tūī call at dawn each morning, weaving honeyed hymns through the pale light. Their song spills over our sleepless joy, over hours spent stitching dreams to words— the sun always seemed to rise too soon. By dusk, your bags lined the door. You said goodbye like a stranger would— a soft, obligatory kindness. That night, I lay awake counting heartbeats, each one thudding where your voice had been. The tūī still call at dawn, relentless

Penelope Scarborough the bus stop on courtenay place knows your secrets it watches girls pop the nights like pills new world wine oh so cheap & delicious hates the way kids drop night ‘n day vapes down the back of the benches like their disposability might make the cancer less permanent feel the way the trees here are hungry for wind skeletal veins always scratching the night but it’s late now – the roads are empty the kind of night that sits rotting on your skin whe

It started with the bedspread. Red, threadbare—the kind of fabric that clings in summer, that snags if you move too quickly. You said it looked cheap, felt worse. But I watched your hand linger on it when you thought I wasn’t looking, stroking the roughness like it calmed something restless inside you. The first cigarette burn came on a Sunday. You were propped against the headboard in those boxers you always wore, waistband loose, curls spilling low. I remember staring, caug