Quiet as I go, I lift my heels up and hold my breath as I walk over the bare floor beneath my bare feet. In these early hours of the new day, I don’t wish to wake you.
I look behind me to the glow of the computer, packing files away for another day. Its blue light casts a gentle glow against the green wall it faces and like all of the light I am drawn to,  I enjoy the softness I see.
Quiet as I go, I tip toe forwards in search of the door where you have been sleeping alone. I recognise the effort it takes to be light whilst I am feeling the weary and heavy weight of my bones.  I recognise the effort you take to be patient, warm and unequivocally accepting.
There’s a little light to guide the way and I can hear nothing, but you. You breathe quietly like you do in all of your ways where you keep your space small, your presence light. I see a flicker of peridot on the bedside, I smile gently and my stomach warms at the thought of wearing this for you, throughout all of our days together and I am mesmerised by the eternity that lies before us.
I feel grateful and I feel humbled as I know all too well of the irony of a stoic man such as you, keeping a dreamer such as me. I wonder in the darkness if you will ever know of the grandeur of your ways. “Words mean nothing,” I say, ‘I’ll look after you’, you say. And you do.


Never could I have dreamed of these years later as time has aged us, as it always does, of the little that is left.
I hesitate as I write to you. I put words to paper and I wonder if – as I write mine – they are erasing yours.
I write and delete and write and repeat, throwing my words to the wind knowing that they will dance to the edge of the world where they will fall on deaf ears, labelled and reimagined as a stone steeped, ironically, in loyalty and faithfulness.
But my eyes are heavy under curious lids and I seek out his words for hearts’ other than mine, with little eyes under their own lids: curious, light, bright and expecting.
I know now that he is a shadow of the man I once knew with a freedom and new horizons.
But my lungs are heavy under curious breath and it is all that I can do but question his former-self: a man I once wanted to love.
I seek to ask him why his pages are blank yet charged, his intentions shortsighted and inconsistent.
I hesitate as I put words to paper and I wonder if  – as I write mine – that they are erasing yours.




I tread softly today, raising my eyelids only to the romantic edging of the clouds above.  I walk closer to the sea and as the autumnal light moves over us, here we stand together as one woman and the sea.  I know now of light and as I look above in a familiar and consistent awe of the sky, I am nostalgic for the shapes, light and colours of old paintings. I swap my presence for an artist of old’ and I imagine them there, heart and eyes humbled by the gentle light of that late, shining sun centuries before I was here – or my mother or her mother, or hers.’ I feel connected, then. The skies lose me and a crashing wave breaks my gaze.  I lick my lips thoughtlessly to be surprised by the taste of saltwater. Immediately I’m transported to yesterday when as I was kissed, I was told, ‘you taste like sea’ and then to what feels like a lifetime ago during a time of gentleness,  ‘you look like you’ve just come out of the sea’ was whispered to me under water.

Fading in and out of a haze spurred on solely by the wind I bring myself back to the water before me. The tide is coming in at such a rate that before I know it, my feet are covered in surf and I run backwards in excitement. My belated and distracted efforts are fruitless however, as the water has already started to leak into my boots but, as the water reaches my toes I feel uncharacteristically grounded. I dig my boots deeper into the pebbles to soak up all of the energies from the earth and the surrounding elements. I look at the water to my left on the other side of the groyne. The tide is in and it looks as though the waves are elegant dancers as the current pushes them towards the shore. Theres no set rhythm, nor do the waves crash but I am both impressed and mesmerised by the grace and strength of this great body of water. Turning my gaze, I notice that there’s a momentary meeting in the layers of water. It’s at such a hasty pace that I imagine that they are two children who are being spun around by their parents, laughing, just touching fingertips as their splayed arms reach out towards one another.  I steady my gaze once again and notice that, as the edges of the water meet they seem to align just’ so. Whoever I might imagine the waves may be this time, they hold onto one another in readiness to drift backwards along the stones and the surf and back into the sea together.