As Long As

I conjure up images of you as I walk through the woodland. I’m light like pollen, spun clouds in summer, a ghost. Everything you wanted me to be. Obedience was my blanket. An elderly man walks by and ignores me. His dog sees me though. Four-legged innocence waiting for validation. I smile; he wags his tail. A victory flag. I wonder whether dogs understand smiles the way people do? I had given up waiting for your approval. The elderly man whistles. Obedient dog. I need space you said. Where did obedience get me?

Moist leaves and twigs, glistening with recent rain, cushion our steps and leave no trace of visitors. The elderly man and I were never here. But the heaviest part of me isn’t my footprint on the ground. It’s the heart part that floats up and hovers, makes the edges of clouds fuzzy. It’s the part that surrenders to the onslaught of thought, illuminated bitter reality. Like the unexplained appearance of jasmine-scented candles by your bedside when I dropped in once, unexpectedly. Or fairy lights twinkling along your headboard—a sweep of diamonds around a serpent’s neck.

Autumn rays pour through amber leaves and hope looks like golden nuggets suspended in a milky hue. A ringtone. Tears sear the soft peach of my cheek like a chainsaw through a trunk. Because it isn’t you. Because a floating leaf touches my face, like you did.

Tree-hollows yawn with feigned nonchalance as they entice small creatures to shelter inside their gaping mouths. Small children peer inside looking for magic, often disappointed, always hopeful. A parent whistles, calls. Obedience. I shudder and shudder and shudder.

I might be invisible, or an ancient tree spirit, or the sad woman who smiles sometimes when she walks. I touch each woody bark. Frown lines and rough journeys carve and crack, mirroring my heart. Winter beckons. It creeps through the gaps, spreading like a toxic rumour, its tentacles grasping, freezing life from every lilting hint of I forgive you.

Give me winter berries, saturated with juicy, ruby ripeness. Laden with nature’s poison. Where would they find me? Red river trailing from the corners of my lips. On a kitchen floor of a one-bedroomed flat? On sunlight-sprinkled forest moss? In the loos at The Fox and Hound? Foul play. Rumours.

I can’t hear my breath. I imagine that the air has swallowed it. The stillness is my breath. A single falling pine cone. I’ll push it all back, wrapped in distraction and smelling of autumn. I may miss it when I need memories, or therapy. I speak to the air. I solicit its wisdom. I have a plan. It will make a difference. Think stillness, focus on the breath. Think of a zen garden and a breeze. A squishy worry-ball sucking trauma from your palm. I trust my letter reached you, folded around pressed forget-me-nots? Snail mail is best. Written words don’t need air. Words in stories on pages clamped between more pages and enclosed by a formaldehyde of hardcover. Imagine me breathing those words. They are my oxygen. Words in. Words out. Imagine me, a word didgeridoo. As long as the stories flow, I know I’m breathing. The sound of my song sings on. As long as

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Thank you for spending a moment with my words. If you like the way I play with letters from the alphabet, I would be honoured to have you as my guest, on my profile, where you can read whatever takes your fancy 🤍