what is in that one note risen straight up from the page, the shape of it wholly filed and gentle to the edges, dancing on the upward curve of your lips. do you know how long it is since i saw your face?

i think of how the hard thing will be to choose, how this is all indescribable. the feeling of this morning, waking to the back of my friend, grey against yellow - what was that to my heart? how the sun every day streaks itself in a ramble on the sky, how it is all colours and no colour, all at once. to breathe in and to breathe out - what is that? how can we begin, and once we have, is there any ending it? is this why we say things like love? because we like to think we are saying something, we like to name it, even if the name is not attached to anything, even if it is floating, up there above the clocks and the church spire, up there on the pitch of the wind.