As I hang on your arm in a crowded room, we act like a Punch and Judy show. There’s blood in my mouth and lipstick on my collar, and it’s all because of you. We argue. We make-up and fuck while dreaming of Old Detroit and the fires that burn on its outskirts. In a bedroom painted red, I pull you close and lift up your skirt. You’re wet, and the feel of you at my fingertips makes me twitch and grit my teeth and just like that I taste oranges and lemons and the colours of the rainbow as you shimmer and shine beneath me. When I go to the bathroom and piss, the man looking back at me in the mirror isn’t there. He’s busy being chewed up in the heart of yesterday by those things Stephen King wrote about, y’know, the Langoliers. There are so many buildings that speak to me whenever I’m nearby. So many stairwells with the scent of that spray you once used to cover the trace of my seed drifting down each and every step. As we do our thing on a blanket of coats that belong to people we don’t know, I ask you who created God, but you don’t have an answer. I demand something, anything, but you just look at me and sigh. Do you believe that we are more than just bodies and that in the face of the vastness of the universe, we were just meant to be? Please. I need an answer. After I pump and pump and shoot my stuff and you claw and bite and gouge away, there’s a tune rising up through the floorboards that takes us back to when we were teenagers. Is it The Smiths? Yeah, I think it is. There’s a hillside in my mind somewhere in Bedfordshire, and upon the leather seats of your car during the months of summer as tiny dinosaurs fly through the sky outside, we eat ice cream and touch and tongue and smile like nothing else means a thing.