scrawls
still cheaper than therapy*


13.3.15
Remember when we were in St Jean and there were raspberries and i stood there and picked them and ate them with my straw hat in the sun - remember all those little orange plums he saw in the park that grow everywhere now - remember, Emily when you died and i found blackberries and i put a little heap of them on your tree and my fingers were stained purple - remember when i used to pluck the oniongrass in the green hollow under the forest, sharp and clear and alone with someone mowing the lawn in the distance, past the trees.

All those golden summers, so far and so dizzyingly immediate, a collection of particular, unconfiscatable jewels to make me hold my breath.  Look, honey, look: i don't have to go in the light, i don't have to hold the Light (as if i could contain it), because we are there.

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scrawled @ 09:12

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