On the recovery trail I found myself in Glasgow being loved by my friends.
An afternoon sat on the sofa talking sweet nothings and tasty somethings over cups of tea and nail polish.
They took me outside into the Great Perhaps, so that I could feel the expanse of possibility,
to see that wandering lonely as a cloud means the chance to climb mountains and fulfil visions consolidated in a kayak, over a picnic,
on the choppy waters of Loch Lomand.
A meal prepared meticulously by an Instagram companion, where the textures of culinary comfort tell me that I am worth time and expense,
healing that nagging voice of rejection that has permeated my sleep and tinged my morning bleak.
As I sip on a Chemex in Fika in Glasgow, I know that slowly these locusts will be removed and what they have gorged from my existence restored.
I know that comfort is not human but the supernatural infiltrating practical moments of sips and hugs and mouthfuls and gulps and touch and words that hang
sustained and unbroken by a change of mood.
For Jo, Jenni, Krista and Pascal