There’s the corner of the couch with the thicker wefts visible; slightly lighter in colour in two distinct ovals- a faint comfort-shadow of the time your backside has spent curled up- lost in a book, or flicking through a magazine.
The table with the scratches where you wrote love letters and doodled while on the phone to your lover, lighter circles are spectres of coffee mugs holding warmth and energy.
The dark and light patches on your keyboard, some keys having been worn smooth by dancing fingertips, the others faintly dusty. The “F” keys.
The carpet is fuzzier closer to the wall, and the tiles are lighter where your footsteps have walked.
Dust hasn’t settled on that one windowsill where you lean, looking up into the clouds or bursts of blue sky and sunlight most days.
There’s the soft toy with the balding ears, sucked until furless by a toddler’s puckered mouth.
The jeans with the knees with their Shroud of Turin negative kneecaps.
The shoes you wore too often, vanished wedges where your heels dragged most.
The dip in the mattress where you lay, dreaming, or overthinking things deep into the darkness.
The favourite novel, dog-eared from the many times you pressed it into the hands of friends, hoping that they’d love it too.
The scarred fireplace with the grey ash landscape.
The white space on the wall where a cherished photograph used to be.
But then, there’s the thrill of feeling the warm comfort of love, present and alive, perhaps even with a life of its own. It’s a feeling which will create memories- visible marks on the inside of your head. Sometimes marks of comfort, sometimes faint scars. That you love at all is a miracle, and you shouldn’t fear the shaping that comes with it.
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you write with such textures and flavours, you are very talented
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