Piggy back rides to the moon and back, portraits of me, and portraits of you. Worlds hidden in wardrobes, building our own with gentle hands,touches, looks. Flowers and notes pressed in borrowed books. No need to search for subjects or verbs, as weathered shells of liars must. word processed, typewriters or even better hand written, poems and letters in tenderness read. dreams that occupy thoughts for too many hours. no amount of their realisation enough. Linger as you sleep. You recite french, significance of the words only coming as they’re spoken from your lips. Running fingers round rims of glasses, holding notes in the air like photographs. glitter and moments falling from heaven above- that is, if it’s there; though I’m convinced it’s here.