Every day you meet me by the big rock at the shore. Every day after you’re done with work. I don’t work, I weight 42 kilos and have to take 7 different medications daily. You don’t care, you smile at me, a smile so bright it even beats the midsummer sun. Every day you grab my hand, hold me tight and press your soft lips against mine. You bring me food, strawberries, and make sure I eat. You make sure I take my pills at the right time. You make sure I breathe.
Every day we go to my apartment, my small basement apartment with a window with bars. At first I’m ashamed to take you there, I haven’t cleaned up in weeks, the flat smells of mildew and my walls are plastered in post its and pieces of paper that contain random scribbles and drawings and mostly nothing makes sense. The first time I take you there I’m so nervous I feel like vomiting, I can’t hold it together and I think you can tell. I open the door and the stink comes out so strong. You don’t mind, you step in and your presence warms up the place. Without asking you start cleaning up, my dirty clothes go into the bin, the beer cans and pill bottles into the recycling. But what makes it all better is your radiance, the beautiful light shining right through you, illuminating everything around you.
I lie down on my bed and you join me on my freshly washed sheets. You hug me and kiss me and tell me everything’s going to be okay. And I trust you. I trust you. We fall asleep and you cradle me on your branches.