She knows something I don’t.
She lights a candle, reads her book
about the Isle of Skye. She
has my name tattooed on her right arm.
She is looking out on the loch’s
face, ruffled untidy in the gale.
She writes me a letter. ‘Dearest….’
Where I am, a frantic faraway
sunset frightens me. ‘Whatever you do,
do fully.’ If only she didn’t have to
make me whole like this – if only
I knew what she knows,
how rain falls horizontally,
how granite knocks the end walls
and they still stand.

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