We are magpies. We are ghosts. We are shelf stackers, lovers, drifters, and in the cold wind that blows we keep on drifting through the nights until all that’s left are buildings that used to speak but which now remain silent. Do you remember any of those nights? Can you recall the taste of my lips or the scent of my body on your sheets long after I had gone? Is there a place where we still exist? Where our voices carry despite the years that have since passed? From bridges to supermarkets to frozen lakes to bars where drunken shapes shift in and out of focus as the traffic rumbles in the distance and the trees speak of all they have seen much the same as they did back then- is there a beat of your heart that I can still claim as my own? There are shop floors and warehouses and canteens and a thousand corridors we have walked that are now bathed in moonlight. In the witching hour, there are fragments of your face that glisten for no one. There are mouthfuls of despair that linger like the smell of my cigarettes on your dressing gown. From town to town and city to city, think of those millions of souls you will never encounter. Think of every story you will never get to be a part of, and think of those you once belonged to which have now twisted far from your reach. Think of those shadows. Think of that flesh that isn’t as fresh, and the lines around your eyes that reflect each and every regret. Is there a way back? Is there a reason for any of this? When you take a shower in the early hours of the morning and the shimmering sound of windchimes reaches you through the open window, do you bite your lip and slide in those fingers, or do you look at yourself in the mirror and touch your face not knowing what you’ve become?