Sat before the window, I look out at the town and conclude that her body itself is a question mark. Sucking on a cigarette, I sink into my seat and consider her form while narrowing my eyes in deep thought. Her nipples, they connect me to the stars and the wombs of all the dead galaxies I dream about after a night of heavy drinking. Her hips, they infiltrate my sleep and shine a light into the darkest recesses of my cunning mind. Watching The Shining while attempting to write, I wonder what she smells like these days, for although her body still speaks to me, it’s too far to tickle my nose. Drifting away from the task of putting pen to paper, I sniff the imagined scent of her flesh and conclude that I am the Minotaur, and she, the maze. A maze of suns that draw me in like a fly to one of those buzzy things they have in a butchers. Y’know, the blue machine that zaps them when they get too close. Lighting another cigarette, I picture all those ghosts that follow me around, and yeah, sometimes it drags me down, but the older I get, the more I hold out my hand and offer them safe passage, cause it’s lonely out there, right? Her blood is my blood. Her mouth my mouth. We are one and the same, yet worlds apart. The sun and the moon. The river and the shore. Victim and oppressor, yet which is which? Upon those strange, white teeth, the past is the future. It dances in the eye of the storm just below her navel, the place I worship most because birth, death and a yearning to return to a state of unbecoming are what drive me to do what I do.