We had covered a lot of ground, it was hot, and I could feel you get hard as we shared a smoke on the asphalt. You kissed my cheek and whispered ,
’Hey sugar- lift up your skirt’,
As your hands began to trace my inner thigh, I felt exposed.
‘Lets go grab a bite’ I said, ‘I'm tired, and we don’t know how long it is going to take to eat’.

If this had been at the start, during those early days washed down with alcohol, I would have let that scene get graphic. Biting was your fetish, scratching was mine. Never far from bed or bath we wiped away each other's histories. Bodies mounted and pressed between blanket and bed, our edges softened, our boundaries blurred. We did it over and over again, never quite registering the other - caught up as we were in the multiplicity of our own reflections.

One day you suggested we share our bed with another, ‘make things more colourful’ you said

I agreed but couldn’t stay wet. This was the first of many separations.

‘Spit, bite, do whatever the fuck you like with them!’ I shouted when I found you alone on the bed.

I had thought that beneath the blankets we would do our greatest work. But jealousy corrodes and any sense of care had been etched away.

Now all that remains  are your fingerprints, for Eros robs.

Waves rise up and spill from an absent centre.
Twitching legs, a stomach knot - as if one could be truer.
No talking as teeth tear at tongues in a desperate tenderness.
Our euphoric four day crossing. Creases wet pillows as the shelter, frantically erected during the storm, flaps open uninhabited.
To live as another, what would you choose? A whale, an otter, a wolf?
The latter makes you come across loosh.
I unbuckle my belt and look out of the window as hands fumble through folds of fabric and flesh.
As space becomes drawn up and enclosed our vision blurs into noise.

You took the flowers I picked home and pressed them, aroused by my words. That heady aroma of bleach and shit, when I bent over the toilet to take it.
A cistern like the waterfall yields a low F.
Cut to the shower, pressed up against glass.
Water salivates off forms, a curtain sticks to all the damp parts. Feeling it get dirty, get clean.
The scene.
The soap.
The slap slap slap.

Waves crash and flood the jetee. I am starting to feel hysterical. Blind I walk on cold tiles. All that is left now is the stagnant smell of our recycled intimacies. An unrelenting hum of static permeates the paper walls. Trembling.

Your body feels suddenly small in its crumpled pyjamas.