In the doorway of some restaurant, we share a cigarette and shield ourselves from the harsh wind that blows. In a taxi through the backstreets of an unknown city, you rest your head on my shoulder, and I squeeze your thigh while gazing out the window into the darkness that spreads in every direction. Those black tights of yours, they make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. When we get home, I tell myself that I’ll write a poem about them, about how they make me itch whenever you cross and then uncross your legs, but chances are it will be forgotten about until morning. Fidgeting in your sleep, you lift your face to mine, but your eyes remain closed. What goes on behind them is anyone’s guess. I won’t be attempting to write a poem about it, though, for the mystery is one I want to remain just that, a mystery. Sniffing your hair, I bury my face in your curls and speak to you. God knows what the driver thinks, but whatever, that’s of no concern. As I’m letting you know all about my dreams, we pass by landmarks that hold meaning to so many, and yet to us, they remain anonymous. If I knew, I would surely wake you up and let you know, but as it is, they pass by without saying a word. My fingers, they glide across your thighs, and my lips, they make their way to your ear as I nuzzle my face against the flesh of your neck. In the forest, the animals are running at full speed. They’re chasing after you as you move ahead like the spectre you are. In the distance, many miles away, there’s a tower made of light. I can see it in the back of my mind. It’s where you’re going, and in turn, where you’re leading the animals. When I stroke your nose, and kiss you on the brow as the driver turns on the radio, I wonder what you’ll do when you get there. As streetlights come into view and wash over the car as music causes you to stir, the scene changes, and just like that, the bubble of time and space is gone.