The heavy curtains are drawn tight in the sitting room. Even though the sun is still rising it’s hot in here, and the air is so still I almost feel as though time has, for a span, halted altogether – unable to sustain itself in this place at all. Almost, but not quite, because he’s with us alright, and not alone either, for he harbours a criminal. And a low, iniquitous one at that.
I see the spaces where the objects of your desire once dwelt.
Cherished . . . irreplaceable.
Whole lifetimes fade from a richly-hewn, vibrant clarity, into sheaves of translucent tissue paper captured in a fine, drizzling wind, as you pillage, you leach and bleach away the pages of past and present one by one, leaving behind a future that is naught but a vast, flickering screen, cut with confused and frightening moments.
You make strangers of the beloved.
I clasp her small, frail hand so very, very tightly.
Holding on to her.