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 exist 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 sat.
Whole lifetimes fade from a rich-hued, vibrant clarity, into sheaves of translucent tissue paper, caught in a fine drizzling wind, as you steal, you leech and bleach away the pages of the past and present one by one, leaving behind a future that is nothing but a vast, flickering screen, cut with confused and frightening moments.
You make strangers of the beloved.
I hold her small hand so very, very tight.
Holding on to her.