Lace Lag

She moves through cities half-asleep — camera in hand, bow still tied, always just about to arrive.

Not with meaning. Only momentum.

The blouse is a powder blue lace — gauzy, translucent, and light as a sigh. It doesn’t hold shape so much as suggest it. It drapes at the collarbone like something remembered — not worn. The kind of fabric that doesn’t welcome metal, only skin.
It buttons all the way up, like she’s dressing for a version of herself she once admired.
The bloomer shorts sit low and soft — somewhere between sleepwear and a uniform for waiting rooms.
There’s handwriting on the hem, faint and familiar: Maschiaccio — like a note she left herself in a dream.

She clicks before she sees. Shoots before she lands.
The lace is delicate, but her gaze is not.
She’s documenting her own myth — barefoot but buttoned-up.
A flâneuse with flash.

She says she’s documenting the journey.
But she’s been standing in the same place for hours.
The photos don’t lie — they just blur the edges.

The suitcase is always near, styled more than packed.
She’s not chasing arrivals anymore.
She’s just trying to look awake long enough to leave.

 Material- hand dyed lace top, digitally printed chiffon boxer shorts with satin lining.