September 2019

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In the gloaming, the low sun shines prophecy through turning leaves at the season's end and the breeze whispers promises of beginnings. 

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People die for land, love and money, but it always comes down to a sense of entitlement. And you, gasping your last with my heel on your throat, you should've known not to try and take what isn't yours. You should've listened when I said no.

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Years don't diminish mystery. With time, it evolves and deepens to a golden breath of warmth. In the most reassuring and familiar, there is always wildness and beauty left to discover.

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Fragments of the night before crystallise and day flashes through their facets, whispered promises refracting into rainbows. You blink ultra violet to infrared and I breathe frosted sunrise as our fingers tangle secrets and stolen time.

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The windows here are no more than slices in concrete, too high to look out of, but perfectly placed to allow a torturous sliver of daybreak to announce every beginning of another meaningless string of monotonous hours.

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At first, our meeting felt like serendipity, a chance encounter, an unexpected beginning of forever. Then we discovered how many times we could have met before, only one of other of us didn't raise our eyes. Fate chose our moment for us. She had her reasons.

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I used to wish on comets until I realised they were satellites, chunks of metal thrown into space to hurl back reflected light and con the last determined hopefuls down here into dreaming of something new.

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There's a soul-deep resonance in the seconds after impact, something like truth finding its way to the surface past nerves on fire and rushes of blood. Precise sutures and now-gentle hands. Us, together, and mutually assured reconstruction. 

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I've spent my life unheld and uprooted. It should be all blue skies, open roads and other metaphors for bliss, but sometimes freedom is the heaviest anchor. I don't need to belong, but I don't want to be lost anymore.

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My favourite dreams are carried on tidal waves and dissolved in floodwaters, clouds breaking apart under the weight of the next great storm, lungs bursting with the welcome euphoria of drowning.

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I was watching the lunary eclipse when you arrived, slicing the stillness with urgency, an incision on your chest where your tracker had been.

"Come with me," you said. "It'll be an adventure."

I stayed. My regret still hides in earth's shadow.

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You are in every somersault of my stomach, every electric rush of my blood, every grasp for answers in spirit and void. You are landslides, riptides and snow-blanket silence. If love is a drug, you are the overdose that breathes me back to life.

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Forgive yourself gently. There is infinite value in your kind heart and your tears are sacred pieces of ocean, salt and amber. Hold yourself up to the light, misted sea glass worn smooth from a weapon to a jewel.

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Hands around my neck and there's a little flash of danger, but more than that, it's euphoric. I've seen what those hands can do and I'm lost between hoping they won't do it to me and wishing they would. And this is the dilemma, the adventure.

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We smoke another joint and another hour grips like quicksand. You feed insects to your carnivorous plants and I read aloud song lyrics about redemption while the afternoon sun bathes everything in the muted warmth of 1970s instant film.

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Infatuated, obsessed, a thousand other words that mean I need you and you don't know I exist. Watching your house again through rain-soaked car windows, even the weather is telling me to leave. There's no romance to this. I despise myself for it.

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I've never been able to tell the difference between want, need and deserve. All I know is there's a cavernous space between not enough and not allowed, and I tiptoe around it, compulsively whispering prayer-shaped apologies for being there at all.

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And you peel back the layers and sacrifice yourself, raw and bleeding, heart still beating, to the sharpest teeth of truth. Don't get me wrong, it won't devour you. It will break you and reform you and spit you back out, whole and ready.

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They promised the tree was dead already, but still the crack of fracturing branches hung in the air hours later. My first taste of grief was a dry, breaking agony and the new empty space in the garden was bleached by funereal absence.

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I broke the speed limit, the law, two windows, my own finger and someone else's neck, but I still slept like a baby. This is what happens when you leave doubt behind. The equinox is a time of equilibrium and I have never felt so balanced.

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November's hands, cold and wanton, wrap around my throat again. Your skin is fire and layers of temptation, but I promised myself to a frozen ocean, an eleventh month and a buried covenant of secrets. Still, you are the most exquisite loss.

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Picking words out of my teeth like sinew ripped from bone and there is no regret, no shame, no apology in this hot, blood-soaked breath.

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It's a hit or a job, always some impersonal euphemism. If you speak its true name, it'll consume you. I don't mean in terms of conscience, but rather of consequence. If there's any sense of balance in the world, you know where you're headed.

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There's a small universe waiting in the rise and fall of your sleeping breath and between the flickers of your eyelashes as you dream. No matter the towering height of years we build together, there is always magic still to discover in you. And that's why.

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Wherever you encounter the divine, the spirit of the universe, in stars beyond number and the dance of deep ocean waves, remember it is also in the spark of your soul and nothing made of love will ever demand that you suffer to earn joy.

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We delayed the inevitable for as long as we could, looking every other way and letting fate tangle together whatever meaning either of us had left. Now, I witness your last breath with reverence and walk away, leaving my knife in your heart.

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