How to describe the touch of a flower, its fabric a satin to be truly felt, a snapdragon in waiting, yellow and green and a beautiful seduction capturing. 

The rounded edges of a feeling, corners of time passed, slightly turning that keep you alive, the dog-eared pages that get musty with coffee stains and page turns. Underlinings and highlights.

If I could 

Translate the scent of that day 

The glistening cobweb and the holy bread burnt and buttered and I’ve started to forget how you liked your toast. Was it golden dear?

I was knowing you like learning an everlasting piece of music without the sheets, the song was being written by you and by me, to know the parts that you didn’t, slow in between the blues and the greens standing capturing your grin in the picture  

I walk under scaffolding thinking the posts are misaligned, and perhaps they are. But it must matter mustn’t it? Maybe there can be a knowing in the uncertainty. I say to myself that it was futile to attach wants and desires and dreams onto inanimate things, to look up to the sky, as if they whisper to me in the street. Maybe we had to dream to love and then to lose. And it is said that to miss is to lack. But that doesn’t feel right either. I look for signs everywhere, again. I want to christen them, in velvet, into an ancient mystery. But it’s not that, I’m trying to put my finger on what it is.

How can I hum the memory of that warm June evening when the blue light prolonged before turning navy, embalmed into a sticky breeze that swept through words and jostled fingers into one another with energised touch that fluttered the heart and made me weak. And how can I describe the echo of a past, a past life that is neither there nor here, but is somewhere locked with no key. Maybe there are 8,000 layers where who knows where one begins and one ends.

Amidst this all, what I mean to say is that I miss you the way the sun goes down over the city as the moon rises gently, when the wind scurries and the song comes on, hearing the music muffled from another room before you get there, when the world stops moving momentarily, in the way that the darkness lights up, in the seasons changing and when they inevitably do, in the sunshine and the raincloud, in the reflections of a lifetime, in blue paintings. And I do miss you. Not a lacking or a losing, but a missing. It is a loss of sight. One of these days, I know my sight will come back, but it will never be the same. It will be different, softened, and perhaps slightly sharpened too. And maybe to miss is to really remember a past. And I will always remember, but how can I describe the touch of a flower.