I’m always drawn to those strange shapes of light that appear against the sides of buildings. Like illuminated crop circles - I guess the rational me knows they are just reflections thrown from surfaces I cant quite see - but I like to make believe.
I like to think that the sunspots dancing on the ceiling aren’t coming from the surface of your cup of tea, but are outburst and overspills of what you feel for me. And the circle on the wall isn’t bouncing off your watch face, it’s the light of time itself, darting ever always out of reach.
And the bird shaped glow that darted across the house across the road the other day was nothing to do with the car that turned the corner, nothing to do with sunlight bounced from a wing mirror. It was the ghost of the dead bird you carried home that day - just passing by to say he hasn’t forgotten.