We are islands in a field where the only source of light comes from the moon. There are no buildings, no cars, only that lone rock above our heads that has witnessed everything yet never uttered so much as a word in return. Kissing your lips and then the wet bark of the tree closest to us, I remember a story my grandad told me as a child. It concerned a tree in a cemetery somewhere in St Albans, and how if you managed to run around it twelve times before the bells stopped chiming the midnight hour, then a ghost would rise from the ground and shake you by the hand. Linking my fingers with yours and doing my best to run despite it being so slippery, you tell me it won’t work because it’s only that particular tree in St Albans, but I ignore your words and attempt to shake the hand of someone not there. As we slip this way and that, you tell me it’s not even midnight- that we don’t even know what the time is or whether or not we’ll do it under a minute, but I tell you it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. We will fail, I say, much the same as we fail at everything else. The glory is in doing it anyway. We haven’t had that much to drink, but it doesn’t take much for me to start spilling. So you gaze into my eyes as I pull you faster into the night, and although you can’t see the beauty of our defeat, I can sense you’re beginning to see beyond what’s been given to you. Within the hour, we’ll be back at mine. Within two, we’ll be making love. Is it love, or is it sex? I’m not sure, but it will go on until I collapse on top of you unable to continue, and as my seed drips from between your thighs as we embrace before falling asleep, the night will take us back to the womb. We are here for mere decades, but we’ve been doing this for light years. We’ve only been together a matter of months, and yet we’ve been lovers down so many roads in so many towns and cities. On so many different shores we have met, and on so many beds we have rested our weary heads. There is no end. There is no outcome. There is only us.