On a walk away from others, the leaves serenaded me as if I was their lover. The steam from my limbs swirled around the trunks of the watchful trees, and although I was fully clothed, it felt as though I was naked. My cock was rock hard. An absence of people does that, you see. My spiritual side, slippery and aloof, was fuelled by the caressing rays of the yellow sun whose distant sister birthed the building blocks of my existence into being millions of years ago. The sun above is God. Also my whore. From the hairs in my nostrils to those between my balls and anus, it sings to my soul and I am at one in its gaze. My memories, sly and dry, exist in the singing of crickets. My body—pale and bony—the shadow of a falling tree with no one around to hear its demise. Bones as twigs. Saliva as nectar. Petals as breasts. Blades of grass as strands of hair twisting in the breeze that stretches from the woods to the alleys in town. The alleys are the veins in my mother’s arms before I was born, and the veins in the legs of her mother before that. You can trace me back in the chalk that sits in the bowels of the quarry. The quarry I call home. It houses my soul the way a sinkhole collects the hopes and dreams of those who wander too close to the edge of their way of being. The white cliffs. Those that lead to a place that houses a version of my soul that exists not on this plane, but on another. I’m obscure at best, but my love is true when I want it to be.