We exist, you and I;
not too much, not quite enough;
but we exist,
just like real people do.

Go home, star brother -
     take the even flow, shuttle out of nowhere,
go home where Andromeda waits.
Take it slow, star brother -
     hitch a ride below Orion's belt,
go home where heartbeats stay.

Our souls are empty space,
    black peeling paint on your bedroom door.
Our hearts are made of bursting yellow,
    dripping handprints of eternal sun.
Our eyes are dull and lonely,
    murky paint water and smashed beer kegs.
Our eyes are smoky and dark,
    grey as Rimbaud's cheeks on the covers of your books.
Our hearts are bare, white skin,
    liver spots and silvery temple hairs.
Our souls are speckled brown doves,
    the beating of frustrating wings,
*je rappel maintenant ce que c'est que d'être libre.

So then is this how it feels
     at the end of the world?
Everyone is nothing, we are nothing,
     nothing in the ground.
Is this how it feels
     to watch the statues of Rome crumble and
buckle at the knees?
Everything is nothing, it is nothing,
     nothing on the funeral pile.
Is this how it feels
     to have armageddon abandon you,
leave you screaming on cracked cathedral floors?
I am nothing, I am nowhere,
     nothing underground.

The breath of the hesitant sun
     is cool against the nape of your neck.
Crimson red café fronts flutter in the breeze.
Your feet are bruised on cobblestones,
     your soles worn down.
The gentle murmur of the foreign students,
     the rhythm of the Hindu philosophers,
the hot smell of cinnamon thick in your head.

Trafalgar in springtime;
     more people than you're used to.
Trafalgar in flickering sunlight;
     more warmth than you're used to.
Trafalgar in the afternoon;
     heavy clouds and weightless pigeon wings.
Dusty hands and feet;
     torn-open knees and holey socks.
Rumpled collar and hair;
     torn to pieces in a mess of watercoloured pages.
Trafalgar in springtime;
     forget the winter, leave it in the ground.

Cradling snowy doves in your soft palms;
     fluttering wings and fluttering smiles.
Tip-toeing shorelines, wet grass on riverbanks;
     sun-kissed shoulders and Apollo's eyes.
Flushed skin in the shade of Pelion,
     fig juice in your cold gold hair.

the ways that the candlelight
would illuminate the rises of your cheeks --

soft, sullen, sunken,
stretched, silhouetted.

the ways that my fingertips
would trace the point of your nose,
the fluttering frames of your eyelashes,
the ever-running ridges of your spine.

how you would speak to me
about far-off lands, gods and Greeks --

singing, sighing, searching,
sleeplessly, sightlessly.

the ways that your nails
would ebb and flow over the distant
distinct disconnected dashes of those
that dared to walk before those like us.

meager.
minuscule.
misplaced.

Cold, wet footprints of drowned ghosts
     leading you towards nowhere, a heat-blurred unreachable zenith.
Unlit candles, china white on a china plate,
     shots of *****, shots of bleach.
Ambling along dusty corridors,
     hallways with loose floorboards and memories you're not sure you ever had.
Desert haze, his brooding gaze,
     conversational Russian 101 and irretrievable moments
alone in bed together while Sean Connery distracts you from the press of his fingers.

Low lights.
Low hum, clinking of cups, blurred coffee stains on a napkin.
Soft touch.
Soft laughter, squeaking of torn up leather seats,
     fogged up windows and bicycle bells.
Fault lines on the top of a crème brûlée
     and on the backs of your hands.