Behind my eyes, she’s got these eyes of her own. These brown eyes like Geena Davis in Cronenberg’s The Fly and how they know and how they glow. As a line from one of Shakespeare’s sonnets leaves my mouth, she slides down her stockings sat perched on the foot of her bed. Those legs, those smooth legs that kick against thin air. When she falls back and stretches those legs her wiggling toes touch the ceiling then within seconds take her to the kitchen where she cooks steak and licks her lips as it hisses and fizzes in the pan. She dips the chips in the blood that’s not really blood and swallows them whole like out of a cartoon. It’s night and neon and everything pulses and the horizon is her middle name and the hairs on her legs spread to her thighs that tingle and tickle all the way to the place that births the universe and divides my mind. She’s got these colours that seep into everything. She eats ice cream covered with honey and licks and swallows the spoon and beneath the moon she smokes her cigarettes and there she thinks about those lovers. Some she can barely remember while others inked their names across her heart. Some were filler while others killed her in ways she can’t describe. Crushing her cigarette, she lights another and smoke dances before those Geena Davis eyes. The night comes and so does memory and sometimes she drinks to take the edge off and although she doesn’t want to tonight is one of those nights so here comes the wine but with it here too comes words and with words comes freedom and for just a while love makes sense and from the comfort of her room life isn’t to be feared but cherished. There’s still war but there will always be war and when she squeezes her flesh and worries about getting old the words leap off the page and when she thinks about those lovers the pieces fit in ways they never did and it’s as if the magic were real and worth fighting for.