Between the pages of a book, a frayed photograph of her in the nude slides out and falls to my feet. Like a leaf, it twists this way and that before the image of her smile looks up and belittles my best attempts at not caring. It’s Sunday, and I’m indoors, but then I close my eyes, and I’m in the woods chasing after my girlfriend’s dog who keeps running ahead leaving me breathless in pursuit despite his old age. There’s thunder in the air, and the more I smoke, the more the sky rumbles. With electricity making my fillings ache, a growl in my belly escapes making me yearn for her touch. There were so many sweet handjobs she gave that left me in a state of delirium balanced somewhere between elation and boredom. Boredom’s my favourite feeling, because when I’m bored, I’m carefree, and that’s all that matters. To wake up at midday, hungover on the balcony of some strange apartment where champagne is served for breakfast, watching the brilliant horizon as the people below go round in circles for some reason I can’t seem to fathom- this is what I desire above all else. In English castles, my sex comes from ancient tides. Incestuous and tasting of summer, we kiss like lovebirds not afraid of what they think of how we feel inside. It’s so stuffy, and the grass in the garden reaches almost to my knees. On silver trays, they serve us biscuits and lemonade, and I can’t help but look dazed at how beautiful she appears stepping out into the sun from the shade of a sycamore tree. Trying not to laugh, we drive for miles going nowhere. There are so many places I’ve never been, and yet locations have never held much interest for me. Where I want to be is within another’s heart. I want to be happy in a bubble far away from those who don’t believe.