It has only been four months and three weeks but never has the perception of time deceived as much as this;
Each month it’s own cyclical season of birth, life, bloom, decay and rebirth.
I have written to you before I knew where you walked this earth, on blue lined pages
nestled between pieces of old suede I wrote
my sorrows and heartbreaks to you, I wrote how I felt you approaching.
It was the first Wednesday of September, paisley cotton pants folded with the crossing of my legs,
slightly dampened by the earth and strands of grass split open by my body’s weight.
I closed my eyes and lifted my face up to our northern sun, breathed in the gust of transition.
With a brisk brush of my right arm you rode in with the current and settled on the patch of grass by my side,
you squinted your eyes from the rays which fell illuminating your pale skin,
you cocked your head to the right as you spoke your name,
light brown muted curls which fell longer in the front, at the bridge of your carefully shaped nose.
A profile that has become, within a decade, an archetype of kin.
I knew exactly who you were.