In such a humid night I wonder if I am coherent. Alone in a bed at two in the morning has teeth and when you leave I am filled with visceral loneliness. It is always April when we meet. I ramble about sunny meadows, the way they smell of lavender and I talk about a painting that I am working on for you. I am acutely aware of the momentum of words and the tender touch of your hand between my thighs. My own hands are worn raw in search of common ground but I haven’t the words to not betray myself. You have gifted me your history. The man in Berlin, that year you spent in Turkey. I am frightened by implicit trust, how can you have such faith? Still I consume all that you give as though each confidence is not an infringement. When I look into your impossible eyes all I really want is to get drunk, imprint my name upon your belly.