We walk on shattered glass and breathe in the stench of stale beer. There are no lights, and nor are there sounds, just our sweaty palms in knowing what comes next. Nudity. Oneness. All kinds of blemishes and shame in revealing what we are. You and your stretch marks, me and my belly. You and your cellulite, me and my untrimmed sex that tells you it’s been a while since a woman has been this close. There’s no need for dialogue. No need for apologies. We are broken. Only human. You could call me a poet, and I could touch your face and call you an angel, but deep down we know we’re nothing more than flesh and bone. We shit and piss like the rest of them. We suffer illness, loneliness. We cave in when things get too much. I knew from the minute I saw you that you understood. Uncomfortable in your skin, you looked away when I smiled. Such a nervous thing, you shied from my touch, but when I showed you my words, you knew. Knew there was someone out there who felt the same way too. It rains but we don’t hurry our feet. It grows dark but we have a light. The swings in the park are pushed by ghosts as stray cats jump after crisp packets. The local drunks hide in the shadows doing what they do but we keep our distance and reach the chip shop without incident. After standing in line and ordering, we go back outside and smoke our cigarettes. Pulling you close, I lean in and whisper in your ear what will happen after we get home and eat our food. You blush and look away, then look back. You smile and crush your cigarette beneath your shoes before taking hold of my arm. We are dust, mere atoms. We are without meaning, and yet together, in each other’s eyes, we do our best to make a stand against this inevitable demise.