there was a photo she saw at an exhibition which helped her make the jump: Roy DeCarava’s Couple Dancing, 1956.

Language fails us, always. You told her that words were flimsy, so it was funny when you chose to write this.

She has decided to submit to her tears rather than understand them.

You’ve been wondering about the trauma and how it always finds its way to the surface, floating in the ocean.

The sun rises late in this part of the world, and you watch as stars are replaced by a sheet of pale blue, a hot white dot climbing the sky.

The slight smile on a kind face.

Dizzee Rascal’s Boy in Da Corner etched on the spine.

His eyes aglow, stealing what light remains in the sky.

You take the small fire from his palm, and puff, puff, your eyes crackling red with each soft gulp.