A journal of longing Sarah L. Dixon

A journal of longing

I found this leather book. A4 and penned as neatly as the first line of a new diary. Each word, considered and laid down with ink care against creamy pages soft, as only imagined cheeks can be.

At least a dozen pages like this. No name. And this person may not have existed.

But thenot-me hair, the not-me smile and not-me, care-free child-free plans. She is spontaneity and laughter where I am routine and rotas.

She is unexpected kisses and frission where I am homemade baking and bath-times. She owned you in these pages and in the hours you spent with the shape of the script of her and the day-dreaming you did between, whether she existed beyond the pages did not matter.

Naming her would have made her real and she would have lost some power.

There is no date, and, as I say, no name. This longing is timeless and can be tied to anyone you fall for, at a tram-stop, in a supermarket, at work.

Maybe the important thing for you is that she is not-me.