I’ve written about you so many times.
Sometimes you’re a bee,
sometimes the sea.
Every now and again…you’re a tree.
But let’s face it, you’re just a woman in reality.
Why do I invest so much of my time representing you with imagery?
What does that tell myself about me?
I lived in a bungalow when I was 23.
I loved that house,
five strides to the bathroom from bed,
nine strides to the kettle.
I wanted to live there forever.
Maybe it would help if I wrote one more story,
as mundane as can be,
a gritty reality of you and me.
But how can I do that,
when my memory has become a fantasy.