Your Love is like a building, four walls and a door. A set of windows look out into the horizon.

You see a flock of birds and a yellow sunset.

Someone calls you on the telephone, and they start screaming about a storm coming, “blowing in from the East”.

The birds are flying West, and you watch them fly away, while your neighbour’s line goes dead, unnoticed.

———-

A Fort lies in the West of town. Out on the moors, your cattle are scattered. A messenger rides in, out of breath. A tornado tore apart the Commons building.

You call the chief of the Fort, and you tell him a storm is coming in. You ask him about supplies, but the line goes dead.

Your hate is like a full moon, it rises in the dark, and illuminates the night.