Send nudes. Send honey. Write me your dirtiest poetry and post it in an envelope sealed with your wettest kisses. Send lockets of your hair that I may sniff and chew before falling asleep listening to Mogwai. Send me an ounce or two of your soul in an old Sainsbury’s jam jar that I may tentatively inhale one evening while drunk and somewhere between elation and suicidal despair. Send me your old school reports and let me imagine you as you used to be, so innocent and dreamy and as yet unharmed by the hand of man. Make toast and see the face of Jesus. Send me the crumbs and watch via video chat as I snort them along with a mixture of grounded cinnamon and salt rocks that blow off my balls and make my gums bleed. Pluck your eyebrows then mix the little darlings into a broth of your piss, spit and blood and I’ll gladly drink the lot because to be at one with you is the only thing that matters. Breathe. Breathe some more. Gob at the sky then feel as light as air as your mind separates from your body as you travel to locations from your past in search of spiritual and physical enlightenment the rest never seem that bothered with. Those nudes, though. Make them tasteful and make me want you as if you’re right there in front of me. Take a few pages of my book, scrunch them up, and make them disappear like some kind of magician. Put me in you and make me eternal. Disturb the dust and destroy entire continents as you spread your legs and wiggle your toes in a hazy moment that sits outside of time. Your body should become a landscape that dominates my mind. It should act as a labyrinth from which I can never escape. Keep me. Make me your plaything. Watch as I lose myself unable to tell the difference between what’s real and what’s a lie. Not that I care, though, for as long as the madness comes from you, your version of the truth is just fine. Send nudes. Send honey. Write me a line or two that makes my tummy feel funny.