One every four hours…

When you hear the news, it starts like a tea-cup falling, like a truck appearing in your blindspot…

Silence and slow motion.

And then there is a stampede of recent memories.

Things said, things unsaid.

An expression, a certain something in the eyes.

Mute ghosts and their hieroglyphic half-clues everywhere; cops stepping in slow, muttered circles at the scene.

And all the while, ‘But he seemed so happy…’

Then there is a kettle in your chest.

Then there is an angry blue flame below.

And you will sit and watch that fucker start to boil.

And you will drag him from the wreckage. You will hold him and you will hit him and you will scream and you will hold him tighter still, as your lungs run up a mountain you can’t see and the water in you churns and seethes and froths and foams and leaves your face in feverish triptych panels.

Later, the tea-cup will fall again.

There will be more stampedes; more speechless ghosts, angry kettles, and dreams of cuddling, hitting and cuddling again.

One day, you will look up and see clouds blooming in skies you have never seen.

Maybe even today.



~ by Daniel Townsend on February 3, 2013.

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