Your cigarette, your dress. Those curious eyes that seek me out in my dreams as the sky grows bible black. It whispers, and it condemns. It fingers and itches and seduces like the marble gods that knock on my window in the dead of night. In a gust of wind, the universe tickles your ear as you stand there observing the town as it glistens before you like the lights of a Christmas tree. Do you care? Do you want them to believe in what you are, or have you become like me, indifferent to all but those who know what it feels like to be broken but whole? Days of boredom. Days of fire. One without the other just won’t do. It snows and we dance and then in the blink of an eye it’s summer and we stroll through suburbia unsure of where to go next. There’s romance and there’s fucking. There’s indifference and secret pain. There’s a cat sat in a window that watches me at the same time every morning on my way to work. One day I’ll take a photo and prove that I’m not lying. One day I’ll figure it all out and finally be someone worth loving. Your cigarette, your dress. Those words you speak and the scent of your pale neck that drifts to me through the damp air. In a giddy state, we become immortal. In the second or so it takes for us to synch, time loses its meaning and the nature of death becomes useless. The worst part of being like this is that you will never know how much I love you. The sucker punch is that although you’re on my mind each and every day, you’ll think I’ve forgotten all about you. But the truth is that you’re my girl, and despite the distortion and despite the rage, deep within my heart I still feel you as the centre of my universe, and with each breath you take, I see birth and hope as if they never existed before you came into my life. And this is why I’m still writing to reach you. It’s why I do the things I do because every other level of life just leaves me feeling empty and without.