I fell for her first in a darkened driveway, drunk on hard cider and the prospects of life. We chatted briskly in broad stroke motifs with incidental familiarity. For five minutes we’d known each other for years, shared space with an ease that tends only to come after erosion is done with defence. When she left I fell hardest, like watching sunlight pass across prison bars, I felt burgled and bereft. I stood in that darkened drive with the shape of love depressed in my hand and the knowledge that nothing felt so right as her by my side.
The lily’s leaves are browning. I don’t know how to help. I’ve moved it in and out of sunlight and watered it more or less. It doesn’t want to thrive. I understand. It’s old now, half a decade at least, the roots must be knotted and cramped against the terracotta hull. Does it imagine there’s more to be had while it curls against its cage and feeds upon itself? Does it know open fields and boundless soil? I’ve never said anything, but the knowledge must be inside it, the pent potential of all living things trying to live more.