Photo by Julie Coulter

She grew into you while you were still open to rain. When she left you hanging with her left-over straw lovers, their straw dust soliloquies, you hid in a flower pot in a room in the heart of a city facing away from the sun. A woman dropped in every so often to tell you stories. She taught you to wrap up the darkness in neat cardboard boxes. Then she became the source of all light-absorbing absence. You dreamt in ruined colors. You survived until you couldn’t.