Essay 191 • Sep 4th 2017

Her: On Mondays and Fridays he'd take me out.
Him: She's lying.
Her: We would wander in forests, staining each others lips with the violet hue of wild berries.
Him: I'd look into her eyes and I'd see the moon. Her eyes controlled the tides (they used to).
Her: On Sundays we'd feast on wild fare. A bow and an arrow for a fork and a knife.
Him: Rabbit, poultry, fish on a lucky day–the feathers of the birds we preyed kept us warm.
Her: Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays were for silence. I swear the lack of words would bring us closer.
Him: First one to talk had to row the boat back to shore for the rest of the week.
Her: On Saturdays he'd kiss my forehead with the strength of a thousand killer whales.
Him: Weird.
Her: He'd caress my hair like a bad habit he never wants to kick. My cheeks would blush like cured meat.
Him: Her legs could last me til the end of the season, if I paced myself (I never could).
Her: His skin on mine felt like honey dripping from a deadly bee hive. I get too close and it's the end of me.
Him: Sundays.
Her: On Sundays we pretend we never met each other. We dwell in the possibility of not being born at the same time.
Him: I go along with my life as if I never counted every freckle on her back, connecting the dots all the way into our demise.
Her: Your demise.
Him: Whatever.


Levi Walton is a Photographer living and working in New York City. A lover of Radiohead and Mexican food—and native to the tropics of Panama—he dabbles between the fields of Editorial and Portraiture, with a soft spot for unusual, one of a kind subjects. His work extends to both digital and analog mediums, and is rich in color and experimentation, both elements deeply characteristic of his body of work.

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Styling: Bobby Cao
Models: Claire Jensen + Dylan Melby @ STATE