It’s funny how the older I get, the longer it takes to settle back into my own skin. I fill the corners of the house with trails of myself after you leave… octopus ink slowly staining water silky-black. Exhaling the goose flesh and laughter and frustrated tears, I bite my lip until the blood comes. It tastes like relief.
Where are you, old friend?
You’re getting harder and harder to find every time. You mould and dip and fit into the sharp angles and deep wells of other hearts and foreign lungs. Sometimes I can’t recognise you. Sometimes I see glimpses of you and I don’t know whether to squeeze or shake you. Sometimes, after the rain, you shine through the clouds, and it was like we never were apart, you and I. You are here, all shimmering resplendence and brand-new familiarity. And it’s like you never left, we were never apart, and I always just knew. You are me and I am you and we are here on this sphere of light making every moment in love a miracle to behold.
I cling to you | don’t go.
I breathe you back in and hold you close beneath my ribs and deep in my womb. Because soon they will be back and you will start fading, and once again, I will watch helplessly, as you slip between my fingers and melt back into the earth.
Image: Death To The Stock Photo
Keep writing my friend. I love your voice.