We would lie on our jumpers under trees on sundays, knees rubbed green in summer.
Shadow stretching across the grass.

There you would make me play out these stories, your red arms flailing in the air, and beating down upon the earth.
In the quiet of the afternoon, tiny birds would rustle and spill out of the leaves above, headed for the city, as you pulled yourself up and let out a deafening scream.

I of course was to play along.
I was to save you.
We'd been here before, in burning buildings, dodging landmines and swimming from sharks.
I would always save you.
And though i knew we were playing, you would always stretch out the story a little too long, and i, too young and stupid would find myself collapsed in the dirt, wet cheeks burning as you ran from my arms, losing breath and convulsing in the grass.
All too often dying.

Later, when you brushed the hair out of your eyes and sat up, laughing, we would drag our feet indoors and stay up late, listening to thunderstorms behind windows.
And in whispered tones i would tell you, 'you don't have to be, you dont have to be so sad.'
On the floor by the bed we would climb inside that red jumper. The one that got handed down and down, and stretched across our knees, pulled around our bodies.
Like here we can hide away.
Like how it's still raining outside. How it never stops raining.
I don't know.

Sometimes things just feel too big to talk about.
And i just keep on wanting to go home.
To close doors behind me.
Switch off lights.

In the car i am dreaming.
Slow swerving, leaving
A voice on repeat cuts to silence
and there is

Today i wake up early and run out to the edge of the farm where the land meets water, and though it stretches out forever, it doesnt feel too far.
Looking up, i guess i'm searching for a sign. Something solid.
Minutes pass and all i can see is the blue and the white. A pattern laid out and repeated.
Squinting in the sunlight, i'm about to give up when suddenly i see an aeroplane emerging from behind clouds.
I watch, fingers burying thumbs, neck aching as it moves further away- getting smaller and quieter until there is nothing of it left at all.

I think of Pennsylvania. Of rough legs swinging from banisters in June.
The phone ringing and ringing.

The smell of oranges.

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