Berkane

Each midnight I am cursed with forgetting you and each dawn you hold me tightly until I remember again.

A clump of overgrown monsters rumbles under my bed, ladled into each dinner and hour.

My room with a view casts shadows over the clementine orchards your grandmother birthed decades ago, in a time where people were less moulded into expectations and time.

Now there is no room to breathe outside the hours we're allotted.
Now there is no space to taste.

I'm bent over the particles of your ancestors, trying to fit them back together again.