Let’s talk about how we halve grief, divide moonlight, slice open decay to allow for more decay. It’s May now, meaning cold feet and dampening laundry. Meaning inconsolable skies and a train pulling into the platform then emptying itself. Quietly. At a distance. From a sixth-storey balcony with evening dew clinging under its rail, old telephone books thrashing in the wind. Come winter, we’ll heat our hands over the stove and ruin each other for anyone else. For everyone else. You, who is unlike anything I’ve ever known. You, who kissed my idiosyncrasies until they sighed. You, with half a chuckle against the weakness of my throat. Yes—always you, at the rim of that childhood playground, at the edge of that ageing photograph, your face slow-burning in fields of morning light.