kalandrakas

Four thirty AM I am standing in my kitchen wearing my dark blue dressing gown building a time machine from assorted cutlery and a broken microwave. I am visiting you three years ago. I have calendars for you with notes written each day: some are highlighted orange to show you when to ignore the things I say. Others are circled blue, and on these occasions I meant every word. I am smiling at you, already knowing the day you leave I will understand in time, despite what I say. You look at me quizzically: bemused by this odd smiling. It’s four years later: upsetting things we said seem like empty noise, instinctive