It’s November again and I feel as if the bracken on the trees has changed so much. And yet, I would not know—I am so far away from that place—in not only years.

I believe you look the same. Of course I can’t be sure, but real-time details don’t change my mental image of you. So I say it. So I believe it. You would rather me believe you’ve changed for the better, but I know better could only be the same as you were.

But I have changed, of course. And of course it is only ever one-sided – this we would agree on. You try to tickle out the nuances you remember that I do not, but I didn’t tell you I learnt to suppress the urge to laugh.

But I’ll laugh, don’t worry.

What I remember most are your eyes. Because they are everything I knew I wanted to exist. No, I couldn’t tell you what colour they are, in certainty, but I know them more than I know my own.

Although, I must learn to remember that all we're doing is finding a very similar kind of different way to describe the stars. This is applicable in all circumstances.

Would you have me believe all the positives? Even if you still hide all the negatives lurking in your warmth? As I do, I suppose. Because pleasance is uncalled for, and we are such social terrorists.

When did you cease being a person, and begin to be a memory? It is gradual, perhaps, but it still offers me up such a shock when I decide to take a look.


Hello, I love you, goodbye.


How many years have to elapse before I forget how it feels to be that person?

Somehow I don’t think it has to take that long.

Sometimes I think I have the ability to be that person at any time.


But it isn’t certainty. Knowing is yes or no. Not the confounding greyscale of reality.

What I love is that love does not have to begin with a kiss. But I am saddened to note that it rarely ends with one. And I am talking to you through an expanse of letters filed together to produce my nebulous meanderings. I swear (so much - it’s true) that I am not purposely trying to be obscure, this time.

But trying is different to achieving. And loving is different to being loved. And being loved is different to loving when the amounts are all confused, and in the wrong directions. And synchronicity only achieves a flat-line. I apologise. It would not make sense to you if I ever tried to explain, because I haven’t yet tried explaining it to myself.

I wish it were easier than a want to wish.



In my dreams I’ve probably seen you more times than I have in waking.
What would you rather wish, be true?

In my dreams my ears rush when I wake up inside them and I can do whatever it is that I cannot do here. Shh… don’t tell anyone what I say to you there.