I am already thinking of things I have to write down for you, books I want to give you. I borrow from Ramanujan; I feel myself enclosed within lines and words that have no closure, and so in belonging to them, I feel free. Yet, I think of you, of your come back soon, so carelessly spoken, and I feel the weight of this time physically. Last night I  dreamt that I fell asleep on your couch and you let the tea grow cold and now I am thinking about the infinite spaces circling people and things and the enchantments betwixt and between:

This is where I want to live,
close to where the heart gives out,
ruined, perfected, an empty arch against the sky
where birds fly through instead of prayers

From Orkney/This Life by Andrew Greig

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