nobody knows that that shoulder is mine

the old postcards are the most haunting; the faint, memory-heavy fingerprints, postage stamps, smudged ink splendour. laid with gold leaf, bright, clear colours, hand-writing like a mad-woman's knitting splayed across the card, addressed to old souls with dated names, in forgotten tongues. devoid of cluttered thought. wishing you a happy birthday, a god-bless, a thank you, a condolence. simplicity transcending.

some days the worlds' veil seems penetrable, a diaphanous breeze rolls over us, rose scented and it feels as though the sky could be pierced, or maybe broken like a piñata, japanese effigies and coloured sugar skulls tumbling down like rain. the spirits of yesterday hum contentedly in the background.

but such thoughts are only induced by burrowing your head into your grandmother's armchair, that scent of cream tea and dusty cupboards and soap enfolding you in its lap. the only fantasies are captured in the decaying wallpaper and in the fifties lamp on the table beside you, as does the album, the one with all the photographs; the one with all the postcards; the one that's memory-heavy. the thoughts in your tired mind slip through your fingers like water, or birdsong through a lace curtain.

cecily