Love letter # 2509

Yesterday, when we knew everything, nothing could stop us. Ours was the miracle unfolding. Today, we persist in ordinary orbit. No longer at the centre of things. Not wild, not cool, not defiant. We are no one’s idea of anything.  

Yet, even in our unromantic waking, a kind of dream. A slow, grey yearning. We are here now, uncertain, except for the trajectory of bones. Let the dust pile up, the silence gather in every corner. Take my hand in the darkness. Walk me to the edge of nothing.

In the spring we were made of flowers. Tomorrow, beneath the bare branches of winter, let us go to ground together and be, at last, as one.