Up the stairs, meeting for cigarettes.

I am boiled, bound to man. A horrible newfound realisation that you are the same, yet to be found.

I owe you something, anything, an explanation.

An illness of the brain, a bedside table, reminding me of someone else.

You’re inside of me.

Not here nor there, boiled again in the sun.

Point two miles and a world away.

A blonde, the sun, a death.

Prosecco and crying and confession.

Will never send you the money for the cab, nor the tickets for the reading.

Too busy giving away free beer now.

Hallelujah, Happy Birthday, Happy Anniversary.

I am walking the streets not for you, but for something to happen.