Moments that were once real are now orange peels between my fingers. Their taste and shape a puzzle that consumes my waking days. The moths from outside fly through the window and circle my hips. I’m a man, but more of a woman. Fertile, and drawn to the motions of the moon. The memories of who I am and who I am not shine like bruises. Like a second skin, they shimmer with vivid colour. I’m a nearly flower. A bud full of promise never to sully before lustful eyes. Delicate and bending in the breeze. No armour. No epiphanies, only testimonies of the footprints we leave behind. I come alive and die doused in shadow. I exist as if never existing. It’s not a tragedy though, because nothingness is merely a liberation of the senses. It’s the best thing that ever happened to me. The orgasm is my everything, but so is a bottle of beer in the early hours of the morning walking down some street in search of my favourite inch of pavement haunted by the memory of a teenage dream that broke me free of my chains. I agree that I’m ambiguous at best, but anything less and the poet in me recedes quicker than the tides of the sea.