the
place where
we
touch - feeling
every
gust of wind
A
month before their wedding day, they break up. And I can't help
blaming the weather.
We
are changing. Evolving. Into squinting beasts. Half-hunched and
stiff of limb. One day they will look back and say, that was where
it all started.
The
boom of another fallen wheelie bin. Ripped up and torn, the sound of
car horns and a siren.
We
make hourly trade-offs - moving away from the warmer, quieter, safer
core of our home. To the edges. The windows. Our rain lashed
fringes. Only two sheets of glass between us and this weather. The
pain. We move there because we seek even remnants of light. To read
by. To write by. To be by.
this
wind
now
snatching the last
scraps
of daylight
1 comment:
I love this - I love the idea of 'the edges' and I love that you seek light 'to be by'. You write about the wind as though it is a creature, snatching and ripping. Maybe it is.
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