Not of the colour of wheatfields.

There was something Kate said once, a long time ago, back when we both had some innocence to spare, that I have been searching the internets for, and cannot find. I suppose that is how it goes, sometimes words disappear from the internet. Today has been a long enough, bad enough day, and not even friends could make it better. And the words from Kate that might have offered some comfort have gone and cannot be found. Today is a dark day, and a good day to be missing Kate.

I don't think some of you know the story of Kate, and it would take too much time to tell, but she was the first person I loved unconditionally. She broke my heart.

She still makes my heart ache and yearn and want. Want so badly. She is the colour of raven, the blackness, the void. She is found in the tinniest of corners, corners left black and dark, lonely and forgotten. She is everything that makes my heart race with desire, everything that it means to have the Earth crack and threaten to swallow you whole.

She was mine, a long time ago. And now she is off in the world, belonging to someone or something else. But she is always in the corners, always the colour raven, always the depths of my desire, always always always. Somewhere, deep inside, pieces of her still belong to me. Our adventures and that slow, painful, different sort of coming of age ... those, those are mine.

Say hello, and say goodbye. Tell her something for me, when you find her in that blackness, that void. Tell her I love her, ask her if she loves me, still. When you stumble upon the right sort of colour raven, tell her I am the not quite the fox, I cannot be so brave, but always always always shall I hope.