He was like a steamship coursing an endless sea, always traveling somewhere else. Far away and faded from distance and memory to reappear on a winter’s morning.

All I’d ever wanted was for him to stay awhile. He’d drop anchor having found his home in me. We’d find joy as hoarfrost turned to blossoms.

In truth, we were lovers snatching moments. Memories danced from projector to wall. Each clip a scene. In one: a café in Barfleur. The next: a foray through a hidden bookshop. As we  lifted the jacket of an all but forgotten ‘Emma,’ history rose dusty and reminiscent of bourbon and oak.

Desire is a fickle mistress. Once more, I’d wake to discover he’d left.

The Letter



Published by

Anna Watson

~ write like a painter

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