Sweet Heart. Sweetheart. Love.

Tonight's a night filled with symbols my younger self would have had wet dreams about.

I'm laid out in the bath reading Andrea Gibson and Keaton Henson Plays in the background and the second after I read Sweet Heart the song whispers “sweetheart” and I look over and a see a shampoo bottle labelled Love and some part of me aches for any of this to mean something like it used to. To give me the reassurance that the universe is for me. Amidst all my doubts and self-critical thoughts there is a force out there that has arranged this book. This song. This bottle. To send a message of galaxies and eons and infinities just for me. Of things to come.


But they are just a book, a song, and a bottle.

And maybe if I can just let them be what they are they can be a trinity. Holy in the absolute lack of divinity. They will allow me connection if I don’t connect them. So I push against old familiar wants to let this moment be enough. This is the gift. Not the next thing. Not the unspoken promise. This.

This book. This song. This bottle.