We stood among bluebells

just the two of us,

our feet swept along the grass

and we were ghosts.

So silent

we couldn’t let ourselves be heard

for fear of being discovered.

For fear of them knowing

we

like the bluebells

like the thrush’s song

like the ash trees

like the dace

like the stream they swim in

like the dusty cobble walls of some church

are alive.

That’s what we tell ourselves at least

and because there is no other option

we believe it to be true

until it isn’t

and one of us gets pushed off some cliff

or spills a bluebell confession

from their lips.

And we continue to walk in forested purgatory.