The rabbits, they came busy and fretful in first light's dew, dappling the grass upon the lower slopes that tumbled down to the spot where I crouched. My shins pressed indignant upon the kitchen tile as I smalled myself floorwards, secretly watchful behind the slick glass; fashioning a me-cushion, a me-sack, a me-pile of discarded clothing
But those rabbits with their vanilla flufftails and glossy tender noses, they scented humanity’s insolence and darted away, while the slate sliced into unwary city skin.
I find myself back at that hillside in my slow and pale dreams, oftentimes patched into shapes upon the window seat; fingers twittering at the miniature hills and valleys of the wood creaking below my weight, as I shrivel before the startling, screaming wilderness.
I lay my forehead to the great and ancient wall, and sense the hunger of whatever the thing called outside is, reaching godlike through the stone to crush the creases from my brow.
You were never there, in the terrible and magnificent place where the rabbits leapt, but yet I cannot think of you without finding myself in the salted palm of the window seat, praying at the foot of those wild hills.
For you are made the same, at once unconquerable and splendid; a landscape I am afraid to love out loud, for to do so is to be dashed again and again against your otherness by the headwinds of obsession that still circle us, until I am shattered in feral grief.
The dun-backed rabbits, they still lope through my dreams, bright and beguiling; their presence coaxes my hand to the sagging window pane. Like a wren's stolen egg, I am undone.