I write
to create a creased parchment of a map that I only can read.

Co-ordinates of where my fingertips, inner skin of my right wrist and ink have traced upon paper pages.

My first thoughts, a sweet whisper snuggled into blank edges of words amongst one dangerous idea- a f l i c k e r of a flame, soon to become an inferno.

Word strung together more carelessly than a six year making a beaded necklace. Yet they could not be more meticulously choreographed to spell out answers.
Only then I can remember the kind of places I go to when my sight is dimmed by something my chest and knees cannot quite take.