Tim Love

Photo Credit: James Jordan/Flickr (CC-by-nd)

At dawn she’s still asleep beside me. She’ll be asleep for hours. Not wanting to leave her, I start YouTube on my iPhone, decide to search for “Wish You Were Here.” I didn’t realise there were so many versions—by tribute bands, street musicians, even Guns N’ Roses. I choose the original.

In my teens I taped a friend’s Pink Floyd LP. I used to listen to the recording lying on my bed, my head sandwiched between loudspeakers. I played it loud. I didn’t care about anyone else. I miss those crackles and scratches now.

I get up to stop waking her with my sobs, watch the landscape learn the language of light—first scattered specks of frost, a background murmur rising from the horizon, plains surfacing from silence as syntax chains glint to glint, a surging chorus of fields and roads leading into the past, the land brighter than the sky.

Minutes must have passed. I look back. I want to touch her to see if she’s still breathing, like I did with our firstborn. The sun cures nothing, shining like the moon. She’ll take vitamin D pills instead, stay inside, use me like the weather—something to talk about when there’s nothing left to say. I’m the rain from Blade Runner, the Teletubbies sun, the note she’ll find on the breakfast table saying “Sorry, I’ll be back.”


Tim Love’s publications are a poetry pamphlet Moving Parts (HappenStance) and a story collection By All Means (Nine Arches Press). He lives in Cambridge, UK. His prose has appeared in Cortland Review, Connotation Press, Dogzplot, Forge, Stand, Unthology, etc. He blogs at Litrefs. Email: tl136[at]

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