In the time it takes for me to kiss your lips, you turn your head and I end up kissing your cheek instead. But this won’t do, no, it won’t do at all. In a body of water, in a body of clouds, I lay my hands upon you and claim what is rightfully mine. In a burnt-out church, in an empty parking lot, you still do this to me. You still hurt. As your hips press against mine, I close my eyes and succumb to what I know will bring me down. Because against my best wishes, this is exactly what you do. You’re just a woman. An organic mess the same as the rest, and yet you and you alone have the ability to force my hand. You with September sun in the depths of winter. You with the scent of old bookstores on the collar that wraps around your pale neck. In a painting, I depict you as mother. I portray you as whore. In words, I conjure portals and pick away at my faults, but only ever because of you. There is an elegy. There is a void. Both of which can be found upon your tongue. Do you see the beauty of the unseen? Do you dance without a care for what can never be unchanged? Do you understand the transformations that have taken place that have lead me to become what I am? Away from the world, I am at one with all things. Away from your fingertips, my visions of love have crystallised. They have embraced a version of reality you were always too afraid to know, but these days, they won’t hang around for long. Like a dream that dissolves when you open your eyes. Like a ray of light that shimmers during the storm. For only the briefest of moments, we can step outside the lines. We can find a place to take shelter before it’s too late.