you were there with me, all along, in the little emotion, not the big
i don't know how you contact me, but you appear
we're not-at-my-house and i'm concerned about the backyard
there is no lawn, just rust, but the small-life is growing as if by thought
and you ask me what colour it should be
and i say that i don't really care about grass, it's just for want of anything else that it should be. for lack.
a light green seems to make sense, not the dark verdant want i'd wish for.
you sense my distress and take me to a cork-board to show me a collection of red insects pinned to it by their latin names.
they are long antennaed and articulated, quite ugly-beautiful
you tell me that you birthed them. that they were of your boyfriends'. that you were ashamed but elated. i hugged you and said that i knew where to dance.
you said YES! and left. but i lingered to speak to my friend who turned up to tell me of a prank he'd played on a mutual friend. it wasn't a clever prank, it preyed on his alcoholism. but he did show me the telephone poles that he'd reassembled. bolting the pieces together. i was impressed, but i could see you in the distance. walking in a purple cardigan. and i missed you.
so i collected my urn, and sat astride it, as it could levitate. and it pulled me to you until again we were alongside.
but you were hurt by my absence, and laughed with others, and for the first time since i'd known you i felt jealous. and felt it tear us a little, my toes an inch from the ground, the urn never waning in it's power to fly.
when we arrived, all was well again, as if we'd remembered to forget. and while we danced, we spoke of your insects. i suggested that the next time they happened they would be butterflies and that you make a play out of the process and call it 'metamorphoses'.
you said i was dreaming. and i woke up utterly in love with you. and came downstairs to see if you had written. you had not, so i thought this important to write instead.