and now you are and i am now and we’re a mystery which will never happen again, a miracle which has never happened before– and shining this our now must come to then our then shall be some darkness…

“Valleys, groves, hills and fields, my love, I heard your name in every one, every waning whisper of the wind, as I lay in your lap, wary but wild, and you read to me. I was taken from the ground, you know, little girl lost to your gust. I must stress, I was literate before we met, but under your passionate perception, my eyes were carefully cut open, extended, immensely, suddenly selfless, I learned how to read, with my humble, hungry hands. You stripped me down, building back up, until I was taller than the trees, where you taught me how to Polish kiss. We built nature, with paper, after hours, when the moon was moving closer. My naked neck, made for your hook. A pretty lamb, and a man who should have known better, but was too beaten up by life to care. I fell asleep on roses, in your coral clasp, one finger on your lips, to shush the sheep, so I wouldn’t awake, from our forest filled fantasy. I don’t suppose you ever loved me, or, I, you, or maybe we do, still, and we just pretend, so the chasm we created, doesn’t feel so confining.”

I remember you, six foot something sunset, who ran away from the circus. Waiting in a Chinatown alley, to entice me to the dark, with candy clouds.

Angry, and half in love with you, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.

I wrote you a song, shyly singing, story of our strange love, our starry eyed, stupid but brave love, all the ways you drove me insane, love. La, la, la, love. Our song is terrible, because we never learned to harmonise. You can’t project, slipping in and out of key, and every now and again, I forget the longing, loving lyrics. Our song is terrible, my strange, starry eyed, stupid but brave love, but I can’t get it out of my head.

I remember this kind of crying, thirteen, Hastings beach, knowing my world wouldn’t fit into a quaint country village, not just the bright lights, I had dreamed of, for as long as I knew how to dream, but a love. I wanted a love, that I couldn’t yet describe, and maybe never could.

“I went to New Orleans, with you, in my mind. I had never felt such desire, as when my eyes, desperately draped themselves all over you, and I knew, you had my heart. I drank your hair, my blood, and the light of the moon, as the voices of the universe, shook the ground, until it pushed us together, and I knew, you had my heart. You couldn’t resist dark, desperate passion, that had been given wings, and teeth, by a woman who warned me away. My love circled your head, and pecked until I could sit inside, and I knew, I had your heart. When I was through, crawling from your brain, to do the walk of shame, you clung to me, and offered me a reason to stay. Your lungs, leaked through a hole, in your chest, but I couldn’t say yes, though I knew, I had your heart.”

“I went back to the scene, of the many times she was murdered, canvassing Camden Town, to find her at 18, at 21, at 26. I was too late. Murdered, by the man who told her he knew best, choked to death, by the flimsy fabric, of the dress he insisted she wear, and the false hopes, shoved down her throat, until she stopped breathing. Murdered, by the billion year old boy, her corpse, creeping into his room, at his mother’s house, hiding away with the beard dye, and the other girls he broke on his travels. Murdered, on her search for who she was, on a night of nostalgia, where nothing was the same, but she closed her eyes, and pretended anyway. That’s when I snuck up, more gentle than the last, and kissed, with chloroform and kindness, the girl they murdered, finally at rest, with the woman she became.”