Sunrise (bp coyle)

The sun will be coming up in exactly six minutes and twenty four seconds, according to the app on my phone. My second bottle of wine will be empty at around the same time.

It’s not often that I see a sunrise. Once a year to be precise, on the anniversary of the last time I saw you.

We saw so many sunrises together. Not intentionally, we just stayed awake so many nights. Talking, laughing, making love. In my memory it’s like we never actually slept at all, except at weekends when we barely got out of bed.

I kept sending you emails after you’d gone, though you did not reply to any. I promised myself to stop, what was the point? Then, one too many glasses of wine later, I would be on my laptop typing away. Telling you the latest news in my life, work, family, nothing too heavy. Apart from the constant reminders that I still loved you and wanted to see you again.

That must have gone on for two years, before I met your sister at the theatre and she told me about your accident.

Now I only write at sunrise, once a year.

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