A week ago, she asked me:
What does your golden hour look like?
Tell me about the first time that you looked into a downpour and found that you wanted to hold an individual droplet on your fingertip and watch it melt into your skin because that process of not-quite-involuntary-return was so beautiful-
so beautiful that you either wanted to fall in love with or fight and scream at the next stranger who passed you- so beautiful when you see all of those tiny links in the world like bright slashes of starlight- so beautiful when you realise that you’re all alone and unimportant-
A week ago, it seemed vital to respond:
My golden hour looks medical.
I tell her about the first time it seemed like truth had been warped but people still wanted to chop it up into tiny black and white pieces and separate them into old newspaper to be sold for a dollar- buy a wrong, buy a right-
the confusing thing was that nobody knew what right was and what right really was was arbitrary- particularly when it’s the last hour of your life and it’s crucial to stop the bleeding but all of the photo frames in your home are dripping- the nurse sighs and rolls up her sleeves because she’s seen this all before-
I looked back at her. She was disinterested. It began to rain when she left.