A letter I never sent

Look out of the window. It’s not almost that darkness, but you could imagine it to be. Autumn is starting to breath. Walking outside in the dark with your coat on, when it still feels unusual, after clinging to the summer. While the feeling climbs into you, like you’re an old familiar suit, you find old programmes in the pockets, photos, postcards, pins, other things beginning with p and conkers. Shiny new ones and dusty hollow old ones. You can imagine lying on a bed of conkers. Buried in conkers. I could make you a drawing or sing you a song. An old glimmer of something at the edge of your mind. Dirt and snow. A tree fell in the garden while I was away. There are benches where there never used to be. I never see any one sitting on them. The buses talk now. You’ll never feel alone. I saw someone today. I could have fallen back into the sea, cold in my hair, hands grabbing stones. A wind brushes by, as always, promising to bring the air this way again. I’m going indoors. I’m going to watch the glare of the television screen and not think about closing my eyes.