The steady hurt of your beating heart. The still untangible death of Copernicus, and those tiny almost invisible hairs on your upper lip that tremble and pulsate when you see I’m nearby. But not now. Now you’ve got bellyache. I can tell by the way you walk. And you’ve been crying again, girl. You’ve been scratching yourself even though your mother tells you not to because she’s walked these shores before. The reflections in the mirror. They shift and break for you and you alone. The thoughts in your head. They splinter and divide without a single soul ever seeing anything other than their own, dim outlines. Those tiny, tiny hairs. How I stare at them while we talk. Did you ever notice? Were you aware of my searching eyes and how they move all over you as you shift from one foot to the other? Did Copernicus ever wonder how long it would be before his remains were uncovered? Do you think Jack the Ripper ever knew his identity would be hidden well into the 21st century? So many questions. So many mysteries. Such little time in hand. When you lie there trying to sleep, do think of me? When those fingers of yours start to play around, does my image lurk in shadow, silently influencing you in your quest to find the magic moment when for a matter of seconds, everything is golden and still? Seeds. Buds. The flushed colour of your cheeks and the ebb and flow of the tides as they crash against your thighs. Thousands of years. Millions of years. Comets and dark energy and the blood that trickles from your lower lip as you bite as hard as you can. As your mind goes blank while I’m writing words in a room several miles down the road, do you ever feel the need to get out your truth, or is it of no concern? Do you fear death, or is it of no consequence? Your chrysalis. Your footsteps. Your beauty that dances around town in the early hours of the morning like lonesome spirits in search of a new dawn that might lead them back to the warm embrace of life.