Stayed in bed for most of the day watching all of the Final Destination films while trying to remember what number bus I used to ride with my nan and grandad when we travelled between Luton and St Albans to visit my great-grandmother. Guess I could’ve Googled it, but meh. There were bluebells on the way to her house, and in her garden, a birdbath always covered in cobwebs that would glisten with dew first thing in the morning. It was such a beautiful sight and one that remains alive in my mind even now. Whenever she gave me money to spend on books after I’d dusted room to room, the days felt meaningful and my actions worthwhile. Just thinking of that time reminds me of buttered rolls and jam doughnuts and endless cups of tea and the homeless cat that used to visit, the one that would jump on my lap and purr whenever my fingers ran through its gleaming black fur. How old were you back then? I could try doing the math, but, y’know, I can’t be bothered. Too tired. Too bored. How close did we come to meeting each other? Was it within a few miles, or did we unknowingly rub shoulders walking through town one soggy Saturday afternoon trailing behind our parents? Such coincidences make the world a better place. Such delicate threads, they occupy my mind so much these days, and although I often wish they didn’t, they do make me smile. Lighting a cigarette, I close my eyes and picture myself moving through time. The layers dissolve quite easily, and as the years come and go, I follow you from birth to womanhood. It’s a murky ride at the best of times, but I can’t help but stick around. There’s something about you. Something that keeps me glued to you despite our differences. Maybe it’s poetry. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s nothing at all, and I’m just too strange for my own good. Here’s hoping it’s all three.