It’s 4 am, and your image moves across every blacked out window and car windscreen I can see. The streets are voiceless, as are the trees, and as my mouth blows out a lungful of smoke, all that’s to be done is put one foot after the other. It rains, it pours. It sweeps me down the pavement and guides me to the building where you sleep. Those dreams and fears that flower inside your head- those lovers that fill you up then leave- does it make you want to cry? Or are you as hard and as cracked as those statues that littered the seafront we walked along back when our love was young and are fingers linked without the need for words? With rainwater clinging to my face, the cigarette falls from my hand and bounces on the wet ground. Lighting another, I close my eyes and think about what you are.