There’s a certain poetry about your body it must be said. There’s a certain charm and sex that speaks in hushed tones that keep me from growing old whenever I feel my age. Of course, I can’t deny the ageing process. The grey hairs are here already and these bones of mine ache when once it felt as if I consisted purely of air. But you do something to me that transcends death. You make me ask questions where once there was only the slow and steady hum of silence. You get under my skin. You are the splinter. You are the reason why. Don’t get ahead of yourself, though. You’re no gift from God. I don’t worship you because what you are is a mess just like the rest of us. And what are we but a mass of stains on a once pure planet? What do any of us do but eat, fuck and shit while proclaiming that the way we live our lives is the right way? Humans stink. We hum of trash. We destroy, kill, and destroy some more. And yet you my dear- you you you. How delightful it is to remove your bra and slap this thing of mine all over your tits. How agonisingly divine it is to take a photograph of you in the nude as you pose before a setting sun knowing each and every wicked thought running through this mind of mine. Mouths and teeth and handfuls of hair. Noses and chins and the curls of your eyelashes as we levitate and suffocate while chasing new sensations that will be long forgotten by daylight. This whole thing. This dance. You could call it a love story. You could call it one long fuck up. You can call it anything you want. We are what we are. We do what we do. Your lips on mine. My fingers in yours. Fleeting yet permanent. Always yet never the same.