In the time it takes for me to kiss your lips, you turn your head and I end up kissing your cheek instead. But this won’t do, no, it won’t do at all. In a body of water, and in a body of clouds, I lay my hands upon you and claim what is rightfully mine. In a burnt-out church, and in an empty parking lot, you still do this to me. You still hurt. As your hips press against mine, I close my eyes and succumb to what I know will bring me down. Because against my best wishes, this is exactly what you do. You’re just a woman. An organic mess the same as the rest, and yet you and you alone have the ability to force my hand. You with September sun in the depths of winter. You with the scent of old bookstores on the collar that wraps around your pale neck. In a painting, I depict you as mother. I portray you as whore. In words, I conjure portals and pick away at my faults, but only ever because of you. There is an elegy. There is a void. Both of which can be found upon your tongue. Do you see the beauty of the unseen? Do you dance without a care for what can never be unchanged? Do you understand the transformations that have taken place that have lead me to become what I am? Away from the world, I am at peace with all things. Away from their fingertips, my visions of love have crystallised and I’ve embraced a version of reality I was always too afraid to know. Like a dream that dissolves when you open your eyes. Like a ray of light that shimmers during the storm. For only the briefest of moments, can we step outside the lines. For only mere seconds, can we hope to find a place where we can live as one before it’s too late.