Lily Hogan

I see her in the peeling frescoes of an old church, her clear voice echoing through the abbey as if she had been there only moments before. A meditation on chance, she is the matter of everything, the origin of my compass, my snub nose, and my beating heart. Watching as life spills out onto endless winding roads, the dark highway I hurtle down is illuminated by her glow, a north star twinkling quietly and telling me it is time to come home. She is all that I am and all that I could be. I am all that she was and will never be again.

This morning I woke up and my brow furrowed in the same way that hers does. I made my tea (with milk and honey) and thought about light and cosmic tethers, my retinas burning like supernovas that have folded in on their centres.