Beneath the moon, a swan dances for no one. Behind the curtains and beyond the clouds, we’re moving to an invisible beat as the town sleeps oblivious to our mischievous ways. We could go on drinking and fall into each other’s arms. We could kiss on the corner of the street and spit at the stars as they hang just out of reach. Or maybe we’ll walk for a bit and get some chips from the kebab van near the bus station and eat them on our way back to mine happy that life was made just for us. When we take off our clothes and lie down on the bed, I ask you to read my palms and tell me I’ll be okay. Then, if you’re willing, maybe you could wash my hair before trimming my beard while reciting the poetry of Bukowski. Pamper me and surrender to my childish whims. Hold me tight throughout the night, and I’ll spend my life putting you into words so neither of us will die. Only the morning after I’ll feel so sorry for myself that such poetry and romance will long be forgotten and the hours will be spent promising never to drink again while looking for sympathy when none is deserved. The days come and go, but your beauty is permanent, much the same as my madness, and whenever we kiss, the two collide and destroy everything we have no need of. Somewhere in a nearby field, the swan spreads its wings and dances with the wind. It flies and swoops and swoops and flies, and when it reaches the moon, we move from place to place as all the other souls drift away.