When the birds outside sing their songs and you play around with what you’ve got, the music kicks in and I forget how to speak and how to think. What’s your name? What do you look like? As I drink a few beers and roll a cigarette, you flicker in and out of existence as if it were a mundane act, and as I circle the bed you were sprawled out on only seconds before, all I can do is shake my head and wait for you to reappear. There’s a lamp in the corner of the room that’s a grave for dozens of dead moths. Their dead moth bodies are dry and brittle, and when I go to pick them up, they turn to dust between my fingers. On the table by the window, there’s a photo of you as a girl, of when you were maybe five or six. You’re by the beach someplace. It’s your favourite photograph, mainly because you’re smiling and the fear that riddled your childhood is nowhere to be seen. This makes me happy, and as I await your return while drinking my beer the ache in my bones recedes and the faith I lost years before feels like it’s with me once more. You’re still gone though, flickering through the layers leaving behind memory and scent but little more. Something to do with electricity. Something to do with our dreams, those dreams that merge with our waking days leaving us unable to tell the difference between the two. Placing my hand on your pillow, I can hear your voice from far away, calling to me over the sirens that crackle and fizz across the fillings in my teeth. You’re by that beach again, I just know it. In your infant body, you’re running barefoot through the blades of grass laughing at how easy it all seems, and at the image of me awaiting your return so many years in the future.