Colt 45. Blonde Mona Lisa. A bottle of Australian white to help ease the passage from one state to the next. From painter to lover, lover to writer. Girl. Lizard. Secreter. You roll a smoke and say you’re fine but how can you be fine when your man gets bored of what you’ve got to offer? You thought it was love, but it goes no deeper than your oily skin, and the more he sinks in the closer he gets to walking away. Mild flirtation and groundhog days. Stretch marks and receding gums. Hypnotic eye movements while walking around a used-book store dreaming about the shape of her body and how it would feel to have her sink her nails into my thighs while gazing into my big nothing eyes. There’s a battle between her heart and her bones. It’s a pitiful thing to witness, but she’s getting there. One day at a time, she’s becoming the woman she never thought she’d be. Oceans. Harbours. Fish and chips eaten to ease the biting January days while the ferryman counts down your remaining years based on the bags beneath your eyes and the size of your belly. Link your arm in mine and tell me what it’s like to be alive. Tell me what it’s like to see the days without the need for self-medication. Give me a clue as to how to survive being human. Editing. Working. Sleep. No sleep. Drinking. Toast. Leaves. Copernicus. The death of Santa. ISIS. In casino out casino. Be my lover- be my familiar. Not just some other with no sense of spark or fire, but a force to be reckoned with that shakes me like a hurricane. Pull me through the mirror- take me to the shadowlands and raise me up until I’m part of the storm just like you.