I’ve known others but never myself. I’ve seen the whites of their eyes belly to belly at 3 am after a night of drinking but my reflection never registers no many how many times I’ve gazed in the mirror. Not that it matters. None of us are who we think we are. Sometimes I make you sad. Sometimes I write words to make you cry. Sometimes I retreat for months at a time and speak to no one for no reason other than there are no words to give. Love and no love. Obsession then distance. Self-disgust and a fondness for cats and the smell of old books. Kit-Kats over Mars bars. White wine over Red. A need to write that causes more problems than it solves, but that secret smile- that tender heart- if I can capture beauty at the cost of hurting then that’s what I’ll do until the day I die because although life can be shitty and it can drag you down we exist in a golden beam of wonder that will be gone before we know it. Like my own, your body will age. Your looks will go and as the decades roll so will the tears at having realised you’ve lost your youth. Maybe you’ll come around and seduce me so that my mind is full of you and nothing else. Maybe I’ll get drunk and piss out the window not caring if it hits next door’s cat. Whatever. If you close your eyes and hold your breath, I bet you can see us running through the old town- bet you can taste our unwashed skin as we laugh for no reason in the glare of oncoming headlights. We are animals and silhouettes and although you claim to hate me I’ve seen who you really are and you’re just as afraid as me so take my hand and spin. Spin until you slip and lose all control then give me your yeahs and give me your game until as we drink our cups of tea we laugh so it dribbles from our noses. Clutch your stomach and show your teeth and kiss me like you mean it. Kiss me because everything else is a fear.