I hid
your name
in between a word,
I put this word into a line
crammed with so much content
where you’d disappear behind the syntax
and then, just in case, I tucked this line into a story
that unfolded over time into a tale that would tell of a book
that someone lost on a wrong beach while waiting for the right wave
to take them out to where there was nothing but the depth of that deep blue.
I hid you, in a word, in a line, in a story that told a tale in a book, I then placed you,

the
smallest
part
of
you

into a bigger whole, like I was reconstructing an onion, like I was resealing a Russian doll
inside all her bigger sisters and every now and then I steal moments while they sleep
and sink into a chair, into the book, behind the tale within the story until
I come across the line and reach around and find you there, still,
tucked in tight behind that word where I kept your name.

All words and photographs by Damien B. Donnelly