Do you remember that feeling
when you finally find out what the melody is
that has been haunting you for months,
after you’ve heard it just once by chance,
only to be played all of a sudden
by the violas and cellos—an ostinato
carved into the black vinyl—as a farewell
to the kind of reserved innocence
you often only begin to savour
when it’s already too late? I do.
If only you had realised then
that you could survive on a single act
of desperation.
hidden pilcrow 