Megan Eaves

Of course I would. Always try to capture with words the stanzas of aubergine sky between the stars, a fiery dawn, hoar frost rising thick on blades of grass. But it’s your words that make my blood flow soft and steady through these veins, even on cold mornings climbing steep hills to look north across London through the mist.

So now what can I say about it all? They tell me genetics broke my heart, plaque narrowed an artery, and here’s some medicine. A tube up your arm, an alien balloon and some wire mesh. You’re good to go now, madam, but your blood must get pumping; be thinner.

Does my body have a soul inside her? I suspect the other way around – my eternal rents this body for another turn at the Earth game. So far, she’s been a rock, but we did not quite calculate what this amount of love can do. Especially when I told her no. No, don’t love that way, that isn’t for us. We aren’t supposed to, we aren’t allowed. So you recognise that other heart true and kind – it can’t be for you. Turn it off, walk away, stop.

Now she is open, made to let this blood and love flow on and on like your clear northern rivers. Blood like water carving out mountains slow and steady year after year. I only can breathe and let it. There is wonder around every corner, in every sky so cloudy with stars, in the pond on the hill and in the great ocean between us.

It’s your words that make my blood flow soft and steady through these veins. Never stop your writing that keeps this wonder in my heart.