It’s summer. Broken flowers and blankets. Sunshine and the pages of a book spreading always. Through the trees, she swirls like smoke, thin as air. Everything’s hazy. The gaze of no tomorrows. I lay in the bath. The chill of autumn, creeping slowly in through the window. The back of my aching throat, my aching tongue. They call me bone daddy, but only when I’m not looking. Over the water, and through the mist of early mornings. You stand there, cigarette in hand. You watch as she levitates. Amber and burnt leaves. Some kind of harbour; ripples in her city dress. Through open windows, the freeway at night. Forever neon. The nothingness of pleasure, of feeling somehow alive. She peels back her flesh. A mess of wonder, you place your world around her hips. Above the trees, and between the rim of chalk, there are only dreams. This isn’t today. It never is. A balcony. A piano. Figures dance but you’re bored. They grin as they pass. They shake, and they break, but you’d rather be alone. There’s nothing worse than living a lie. There’s nothing worse than to paint a picture that isn’t true. Through a maze of luscious green, there’s a Minotaur. There’s a day in August when everything comes undone. It boils. The sun and sea, dissolving maliciously. All those words you want to get out. All the magic that dances within, that no one seems to understand. Beneath my empty stare, everything is in a state of rapture. Past, present and future myth. Ghosts and wax effigies of dead ex-lovers. The taste of oranges, and the shadows of loss. It’s like being drunk, yet not as unbalancing. It’s like dreaming, but not as real. A thousand leaves in her hand, and a million ants crawling on her belly. Swans and drawings. Bedsheets and origin. Nature, ocean. Womb river, mother. To fuck, and blah blah. The days grow weary, the candle burns, out. Closing my eyes, I see all I need to see. Eyes of autumn, and autumn, eyes. A forest, where everything grows. A girl now a woman. Snowflakes and frozen water, upon her strange, white, teeth.