Each morning I woke and built anew what had been dismantled in the night. Every minute lingering over a cup of tea was necessary to corral my vapourous self, every coffee with a friend the chemical deposition that restored solidity.
Solid to liquid to gas.
When I am solid, I am happy and at ease and vulnerable. Cracks form easily, and then I am liquid and hurt and I take the shape of what contains me: pain; betrayal; the foetal position. I am liquid until it is morning and then I am air. I float to the kitchen and mingle with the steam rising from the kettle.
What more do you want?