Ella Frances Sanders


More, Less

But of course you don’t believe that I could unwrap and understand all of what is surrounding you, or write words that can tear up the insides and the beginnings of all that is good. You only notice the lack of something once it’s gone away, so far away and carried on leaving. You’ll realise the destruction sooner or later, that which arrives to sleep in your bones at night and rock you into restless dreams. Because if Argentina didn’t cry for me then you certainly won’t. Then shake the head a little more my dear, tell me that it doesn’t end like that. Now there are fourteen minutes until I give up just enough for it to kick me in the stomach; aching knees and an incoming phone call. It’s as timeless as a heartache, but it comes and goes.