12th April 1989 (2/2)

Where the light goes

I was sat out on the porch.

I had been waiting so long that the tea had dried in the base of my cup. Looking at it made me feel even more thirsty, but I lacked the will to go back inside. Even on the brightest of days, the shuttered windows of this house trap light like a camera. It is something that never used to bother me, but now I notice how the darkness is shepherded by the architect.

By the time she arrived, the weather had changed. The domes of the trees had begun to creak.

She stepped out of a great big car, and walked down the slope with her arms outstretched, like a bird descending from flight.

I looked over her shoulder as she embraced me, and made eye contact with the Boy.

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