by Christos Polydorou

​I’ve been cooking all afternoon, wistfully glancing at an old orangina bottle with a rose in it on the kitchen table. Tomatoes, raspberries, balsamic vinegar. You aren’t here, so there is no one to stifle my creativity with attraction gouged by insults thinly veiled as constructive criticism. I am feeling something akin to rage but much, much more comforting. My body is where desire knew its name, then I became a nun, I suppose. I fell in love with the wrong day, the wrong colour, there could be no such fine a head of hair for these fingers to caress. My point was I am reready now, it had to happen, I bound myself to the trees and flowers and I drowned in my own nectar. I mean, I sang to satellites. I was bound to open up again, like a wound, a calyx, a strawberry moon. These things turn in cycles; us too.