Memories. Fantasy. Childhood. The denial of the adult world. The in and out that follows a bottle or two of wine that follows a night on the town that follows a trip to the cinema. Striped tights. Blue eyes. Hearts as pupils as black holes as we sink our fingers into popcorn while thinking of the things we’ll do when we get back to mine. Hot dogs from kebab vans. Cigarettes while huddled beneath market stalls as the rain soaks our clothes making our lips taste like lakes. Loch Ness. The Serpentine. We are lovers and thieves. We are believers in what can never be seen, and although it makes my heart sing, what is there to show for it apart from the loss of what never was? Those stars in Andromeda- those pubic hairs of hers that get caught in the back of my throat- each and every one of them inflicts like an arrow. They pick away until I’m covered in scabs that wear her face. Sometimes, when I’m feeling blue, I take myself to a place they don’t know. Sometimes, when I’m feeling down, I put into words what it’s like to be alive in a world that knows only cruelty. How many words have I written because of her? How many days have I spent wrapped in her scent knowing she never cared? Hand in hand we walk the promenade talking about the people we once were. Hand in hand we become the ghosts of who we used to be. You with that look on your face. You with that smile that reminds me of Sunday afternoons in my parents back garden playing with Monty dog. How he used to worship my adolescent frame- how he adored my games.