The old sun falls & bleeds into the horizon as birds fly at the fading light in flocks of ramshackle Vs that get smaller & smaller until they blend in with the treeline to be one with the ghosts of the woods. I’m never near enough to you to know exactly what it is that hides behind your eyes as you notice things but don’t speak them. Contiguous with the fleeting moments of our composition, nothing in us is stable. Lately I feel myself moving & changing the way paper curls as it burns. Possession is a frivolous thing to want. The birds know it & fly directly into the sun. I want to leave here too. Whenever I think of you a blur of feeling swims behind my eyes in pale colours as varied as agate or tourmaline. Just one line from you would settle it, would soften & dilate time, rendering it open & bright like fresh snow.