There are no cell mates, only words. Sometimes there are two hearts beating as one, but for now, there are night shifts that bleed into day shifts and scattered moments of fire that burn so fierce they illuminate all that was once forgotten, and yet such resistance against the dying night always comes at a price. After Sarah and I split, she wore the engagement ring I’d given her on a chain around her neck. She showed it to me when we got back together one Saturday afternoon. Reconciling on my bed as autumn leaves blew in the wind outside, we made love to celebrate, but not long after, we went our separate ways in a cloud of silence and apathy. I wonder what became of that ring? Did she toss it in the trash, or does it now occupy some dusty drawer covered by junk and envelopes stuffed with old photographs and train tickets? It wasn’t an expensive ring, but there was a time when it used to mean something. There were days when making love and spinning in circles for hours on end was enough, but nothing lasts forever. Waking in the early hours of the afternoon, a dog cries while I get in some writing. Am I searching for visions, or merely documenting my past? As I think about the fate of that ring and the faces of the lovers that came after, I ponder whether or not I’m trying to absolve myself of blame or if such debt has already been paid? Blue Oyster Cult comes on the radio, and then Boy Meets Girl, that song about waiting for a star. Reminds me of being a kid. Only ever had eyes for blondes when I was a kid- some scruffy, hyperactive brat with a head of ginger hair with a penchant for mischief and page 3. Sophie bucked the trend for blondes, and every woman I’ve loved ever since has shared those same brunette curls as her. As I’m making a cup of tea, Elton John and Kiki Dee sing in unison about breaking hearts. Reminds me of the time I was unemployed for nine months after moving back home from High Wycombe. Endless days and weeks and months of daytime TV and walks into town trying to fight off anxiety and panic attacks. There were times when I’d just lie on the floor staring up at the ceiling, not thinking or feeling, just existing. Maybe I was waiting for the words to come? Waiting until everything clicked into place and I was able to say what I felt inside.