Can we please talk about
the slow stillness of time, the quiet of the sound of my breathing. When I pick and unpick the broken glass, sweep aside shards that remain of nesting dolls, fit with patient fingers, torn photos in old frames, and wipe then the water from the fallen vase, lilies trampled upon, eaten by the soles of my boots
The mantelpiece is now a sporadic star lying shattered by my feet.
What of the humbling of my anger, who like a tired child has fallen asleep in a corner of the street after a fruitless riot, the snowflake that had balleted in grace, toes bleeding through silk shoes, that rests now on the warm ground? Let us write with beauty of inconsistencies, when I remade my home after knocking it down with one swift brush, romanticise my anger as you do my love.