Like a memory

The rain is adequate. I went and fetched dinner from Enmore Rd where people dashed across roads and down side streets or huddled under awnings. I strolled with my box of dinner holding my face up to the steady stream. The rain is adequate, it made my shirt heavy across my heart shifting things internal external. I keep saying I am sad. I feel sad. I am sad. I don't need bigger words. This is something that will lift. I feel a shifting towards the click of writing. I have been absent from myself. Zissou uninhabited me. He was a distraction from myself with his strong broad hands steering me through crowds with a light touch, opening doors, pulling out chairs, pushing creaks from my back. I was the opposite of bold and it was as brave as I could be. I was unspectacular.

Now I feel diligent words crawling beneath floorboards. I am reading with fresh intensity words across time. Letters from those who fought the pen. I know who I am. This is all I need to know. A writer writes.