The journey begins when love takes over. You walked into the room, weighing inspiration and patience, one in each hand, and I was lost. These are the missing moments in our lives, perfect, unblemished by memory. Come with me: you bent your mouth to my ear. Come with me. A cough of dust floated down a blade of sun. Come. You held the door ajar and out I stepped into a shoal of light, shimmering with possibilities.
We moved through landscapes rich in tristesse. You carried lilies, of course, and I held the Liars Gospel close to my heart. We lay upon the raft you fashioned out of sheer enthusiasm and an entire antique forest, and watched the stars rearrange themselves into constellations we baptised Thrush and the Punch Bowl. You, pilgrim, with your cockeyed sense of direction and your disregard of maps. Did you think I would follow you forever. Did you really think you could lead me to a place of greater safety? You took me to the jilted city where the angels wept for my despond. We did not restrict ourselves to a single tear. Our crying was operatic, histrionic, gold-plated. I always believed in your soul.
Love me do, I begged in my silent movie, but your heart was a flint stone and I could not move you.
So, here we are. You in your lipstick and your flowered dress, just like in all the family photographs. And me, dreaming of a house rich in oranges, wondering after all our inward-outward journeyings where on earth we ended up.