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This is where my writing lives. This time last year, I was writing a poem about a firework display, to a boy at a firework display who was and still is a dear friend of mine. The ungloved parts of my hands are cold. The adventure playground clings to Tarmac;. The tips of our toes disappear as we swing. We walked past the postage stamp estate which shelters most of us. Our friends trace the exploding blooms back.

Burrowing, salt, carnation. blood, wings, berries. distance, wrist, electric, birds. Ink, glass, sky. weeping, brooms, opals. torpedoes, loves, amber. torrid laughter, wood chuckle, knife smile. Gossamer, rise, burn. Deep, bright, far, home.

Déé angee tombéé du ciiel.