she was a lover,
I fed her my dreams, and we together drank shadows.
we were fairy light and pixie dust,
we were lighter than air.
I don’t write her name with a capital letter
because I know she wouldn’t want me to.
Capitals are too big and broad for her (my isla)
not fragile like she is.
she is so pretty and breakable,
we were so delicate, so small.
I miss her, my isla,
how her hand was so tiny,
how we could flicker, fade inwards,
how we could even disappear.
through her eyes, the world became smaller
and like spirits, we went where we wanted
in and out, there and here, eyelash to eyelash.
I dream of her at night (in the deep and the dark)
I see her in rose petals.
she dances, shimmers on yellow,
little nymph, tiny and frail.
If I come too close, my breathe blows her away;
just one of my tears could drown her these days,
things I see are too bright for her eyes.
Sometimes I see her when walking,
perched (so tiny, so pretty) on the eyelid of some other girl.
I watch them together, know they see and feel only in white—
and I remember.
I go to sleep tired, my clothes heavy,
and I leave my windows open wide.
In the morning, I walk, write my name with a B.
In black boots, I crunch fire-red leaves,
my hair loose.
I say it over and over, I am here.
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