This has to be one of the loveliest pieces of literature I’ve savored in a long time. What I like about this is the way her dreamlike prose begins with detailing the ordinary, circling the everyday, making us familiar. And then, she moves into the shadows. She holds up his loneliness, she holds up hers. And we understand exactly what, why, how. When I read this piece, I was reminded again what it means to write and show, not write and tell.
Take a look. Here.
You burn with the years
Because, you know there is such a thing
Life has made one out of you.
Your heart, the red jukebox of impossibilities
goes slow now
and you realise, with an ache
that you miss the blur of
perfect chaos- your belly
has long been empty
of butterflies. You wonder, if they will
In the red aftermath of autumn
you were left drenched and reeling
crumpling dreamlessly into the earth
until you emerged like the flower
you never knew was possible,
like the flower who knew
it needed to bloom
for the return
of the butterflies.