he thought he'd solve it all if only if only for a moment he could watch - free from reified thought conditioned mind succumbing to abstractions morning sunbeams hanging from an unending sky see past the artifice get on the fucking plane and change your life they promise, smiling as they give evidence at the court of crossroads

the moment he lived it, truthful it became, then, grey and unvarying as murmuring life-denying monotony, in 'becoming', universal truths reverberate through the circuit of neurons circumvent beauty and cut to the heart the slate grey meaningless matter he employed each coffee bleak morning to immortalise deeper meaning on yellowing paper...

‘Cal? How about we walk by the canal for a bit, yeah? We can reminisce a little…’

I nod willingly, adopting a fleeting, if slightly absent, smile. In all truth, reminiscing might well be the last thing I feel like doing. Too much pain and strife bridges my last visit to Justine and Camille’s home village, and walking a path trodden so many times in innocence and faith… I’m not sure I can bear it. Not today.

‘Oh my gosh, Callie, do you remember that series we filmed here, like five years ago now? And the ice-skating we did? I’ve still got the clips, you know. I edited them into that video I made of our best memories a while back, just cause… well, our imaginary TV dramas were undeniably iconic.’ Justine gestures towards a body of water semi-concealed from view by a weeping willow, just as gold-tinged leaves begin to twirl and dance in the dappled afternoon light. They float dreamily, and my gaze follows their descent on to the surface of the pond, sprinkled with vermillion and ochre hues. Bearing witness to such serenity, I feel I could burst in to tears at any moment. Or sit here forever. Alone, preferably. It’s hard to bypass the hurt this all provokes, but grinning, I give in to the allure of memory.

‘Of course I remember it, how could I not? That day was basically pure magic. Like, the walks in crisp white snow, and hot chocolates, and cinnamon rolls, then the movie night after… ahh! Can we celebrate Christmas like that this year, please? I actually beg!’ I’m asking a question I know is futile, though I couldn’t ever utter that part aloud.

They won’t be here at Christmas. In the few short years since I last walked this same canal path, taking in the boats and the hanging oaks and the long-grass fields we once ran through in summer, things changed. The sisters began spending days, then weeks, then months at a time in Paris. This was their father’s decision, a necessary one, he argued, for the sake of work. A balance was found, a compromise made, and so their lives, almost overnight, became divided between countries, split between friends and livelihoods.

I miss them each day. It’s funny, but as I meet Camille’s sad eyes, awaiting her response, I find myself missing them despite their presence. I miss US, the naive, vibrant souls we were, and each moment we cherished together. Devising adventure games, immortalising embarrassing replications of our favourite mystery series on film… It all felt endless, once. Time doesn’t pass quite the same way nowadays.

‘You know we’d love to… that would be literal perfection to spend Christmas all together. It’s just not the same with only one sibling!’ Camille smirks in Justine’s direction, and I laugh, thanking Camille for holding my company in such high esteem. The second sibling - that’s who I’ve always been for both of them. The older, slightly less wise, strikingly blonde sister, an honorary part of their home.

‘Yeah, showing you Paris would be insane. Bookshops, cafes, lights… we’ll send you so many photos, and hopefully, HOPEFULLY, you can stay with us next summer!’ Justine grabs my hand then, and it takes all my energy to conjure up a thankful and compassionate smile once more.

Send me photos, as always. The photos I collect in my treasured album, reminders and fragments of a life I wish I shared with those precious siblings of mine. I flick through those photos often, value them as a gateway into the days we spend apart.

I’ve needed these photos more than ever in recent years. Every time we’re reunited after months or more I’m always struck by a difference in their manner or appearance - dyed hair, deeper voices, more melancholy and dutiful demeanours. Each time we part, I ruminate over the distinctions. Mostly, I note how Justine and Camille have transformed since starting secondary school, becoming less carefree, more attentive, dedicated to study. Unquestioningly accepting of their parents’ clearly uttered wishes - for both Justine and Camille to enter the field of medicine. Their destinies being so precisely mapped out for them since the age of ten always left me to wonder when, if ever, I’d find my calling. If the inevitable career path split - I knew back then I had no interest in becoming a medical professional of any kind - would drive an irrevocable chasm between our sisterhood.

I wish, I pray fervently that nothing ever will. That our connection will grow stronger, that in the following months I’ll save enough to buy a ticket to Paris, surprise them at Christmas time.

It’s what we deserve, after all. But I keep my plan to myself, for now.

Moments later, we reach the overgrown wheat fields, laying down, taking in the cloudless sky, wistful piano melodies blending effortlessly with the birdsong and restless chirping of crickets.

We make daisy chains, dance the waltz, renew our vows to never break the sisterhood we’ve forged over the years.

The final thing I do before we inevitably part is take out my phone and snap a few last photos encapsulating the fleeting moments we’ve shared. Of Justine, laughing at Camille’s exaggerated dance moves. Camille, posing for the camera with a daisy behind her ear. Of all three of us, shot from overhead, lying between the blades of wheat, dainty and pure daisies threaded through strands of hair.

‘Oh, how I’ll miss you both’, I smile, and close my eyes to take in the last of the evening sun.

I’m so sorry, little Callie For the hurt I can’t prevent For the tears, the strife, the end to life Your ardent discontent

How I see you in those children Smiling, skipping through their day They’ll be pacified and satisfied All worries kept at bay

I miss your authentic demeanour Truth and honesty a must You observed, ever-perceptive It was you they loved to trust

How I laugh now, recollecting What your friend divulged one day ‘Well, not everyone will like you, They’ll ignore you as they play’

I was crushed then, broken-hearted Always strove to see the best Learned to yield and bend and mould Quite at society’s behest

Wait now, let me cease the process Please immortalise the girl With the sparkling stare and windswept hair Like fresh spring leaves unfurl

Oh, I’m sorry, little Callie You can’t reach the present day So I’ll ask you for advice, my love…

I wonder what you’ll say.

I left you, my safe haven Buried deep in a grave Beside all of those people And the love that they gave

Thought I’d never deserve The kind words and the praise The palatial expanse Of your warm, loving gaze

And that day in November, When I gifted my heart The abyss of despair Tore my conscience apart

Unauspicious confession Refuted, confined ‘I don’t see you that way’ So I turned in, resigned

To a lifestyle of loathing I would show you, I’d dare To dance boldly, and suffer How I prayed that you’d care

A machine overrode me, Malignant and cruel Like that mistress of ballet She inflicted her rule

Then the month of December, Turned bitter and bare, Felt devoid of all sense And I saw how they’d stare

Never took to the stage Body aching and frail Left my passion behind me Danced to fly and to fail

That night sky full of stars Appeared deadened and cold That place once felt like magic
But it hurt to behold

The night I ceased to be Part of that world, I extinguished both the studio lights And the fire my passion had kindled inside.

Descended to streets below Glanced up at the ink-black January sky, Blessed the smothered stars As wistful piano faded into late-night traffic hum.

I realised, only later, what I had lost. Time soon warped the joie-de-vivre This art form bestowed me with, And wrenched with it too The lives and loves of those I once laughed with.

In another life, I stayed. I didn’t cross the street, no - I didn’t elect to soullessly self-destruct.

In another life, I lived - I lived… to dance another day.

it’s never the benign or innocuous matters of the heart. always the flesh and blood of unbridled emotion. forever the pity and the sorrow tearing at my fingers compelling me to put pen to paper in a display of unmitigated self. when I write, I can’t help but be anyone else.

it’s the despair I bury, the prayers borne witness to by the soft devoted pages of my baby blue journal -

why can’t I be her? why can’t I be someone RIGHT? why can’t I be someone who makes a lover feel beautiful inside?

why can’t I make time, why must I while away the hours wishing, lamenting, succumbing to numbing the pain? oh, how being me drives me insane!

In thrall to my emotive name Compelling you to play the game Verbose or not, my imagery Conceives harmonious symmetry

Enjambment ripples, current swirls Do join me as the sail unfurls A sailor and his metaphor Extend past this redemption shore

Melodious tunes resound onstage Imploring you to turn each page Decrying passive ignorance Deploring childish innocence

We open minds and hearts exalt Aghast, lamenting, words assault The bitter twist of fate belies The hieroglyphs that meet your eyes

Yet my craft knew a simpler time Bequeathed with reason, gifted rhyme Without your words, what can I be? It’s you that makes me poetry.

If I asked you, truly, earnestly, Pray tell what you’d reply For I’ve witnessed each assurance, Promise you’ll detoxify?

But you pledge to swear an oath This time, plead guilty to desire For a life on screen can only mean You walk a thinning wire

You’re resigned to castigation From the onset were condemned To addictive connectivity Soon made you comprehend

That the dopamine-fuelled pleasure Where each hit could be your last Drove each start anew, conviction true Consign it to the past

I implore you, set me free From reprehensible machines Liberate me from temptation The allure’s not what it seems

So if I now pose the question Of what, perhaps, you’d do instead, ‘If I can’t doom-scroll, screw my eyes out - As I’ll simply stay in bed!’

Restless agitation, two heartbeats Tremble in anticipation Take to the floor, lights dim, downbeat thunderous -

‘Oh, not the bloody woke agenda AGAIN!’

Departing proclamation resonates Swift exit, stage left Uncompromising, he implores ‘Don’t you watch this, son.’

And so the boy reaches for premature closure Hand outstretched Momentary desire to seize control Stained with prejudice Driven by dutiful compliance As blood-stained as the off-switch.

Yet -

His gaze lifts to meet the eyes of onstage lovers Light waves convey in high definition Magnetic, impassioned stares Technicolour kaleidoscope Gateway to a dream-like dimension Television set seems to take flight

In that brief moment, so too does his heart - So too the hearts of two men - Far removed from the boy’s world - Dancing as one.

Your despondent reluctant glance With eyes bereft of light Meets mine Reflecting what I already know

You Ashamed restless pensive you Occupy my every waking hour With the sorrow regret retribution New beginnings as you swear To remain faithful devoted true

Would I have it any other way? Flaxen hair carried by the breeze Freckled sun dappled cheeks Innocently smiling as you bend To the will of the world

Self-effacing charm Ever-questioning mind Dastardly conviction persistence courage

I could never wish to change you.