Emma Clery
The Green-Clad Vision of Unattainable Yearning
He made a saint of me, but I was only ever a girl on a tram.
Stephen saw a vision, a poem in motion, a reason to burn. But I walked the Bull Wall with my own thoughts, my own quiet sorrows. He named me Beatrice, but never asked what I dreamed. I exist in the glow of his longing — not as I was, but as he needed me to be.
What I'm Into: green cloaks at dusk, the Bull Wall at low tide, diary entries he never showed me, Dublin tram rides, silent conversations
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