Ella Frances Sanders



These are the days of sun.

The ones that gently soak your soul and remind you of what breathing is supposed to feel like. It doesn't mean that things are necessarily brighter, but the evening shadows are now longer and less intimidating, and daylight hours are surely a cure for darkness.

No one's ever looked at me that way. 

Sunlight is pouring down your face, stained-glass windows colouring your skin. Someone is speaking but I cannot hear what they're saying, you are every colour and I can't look away. You don't talk to me, but I'm drinking the silences between us. 

It's dawn before my eyes are closed.

You wake to the sound of me making coffee and scratching down ideas that I will no doubt forget. The days are ours to do as we please with them, and we have years of them ahead. It makes more sense to think about it this way: it all means both everything and nothing, so we might as well aim too high, and jump across chasms that have nothing on the other side. Because I've only got one thing to lose and I haven't entirely found you yet.