1: when i dream about you, i cannot see your face. you are made of light and glass, all your colour cast through a filter, like i could dissect the uncanny reality of your existence the same way i could the blueness of the ocean waters, or the gold of the sun; you have no breath, and your fingers are bent in all the wrong places, but you smell of cat's fur and you're warmer than summer air.

2: it always manages to creep up on me, even now. i'll be picking at the burn marks on my thigh and i'll start to wonder about the wine in your cellar; i'll find myself teary-eyed in the chalky grip of morning and i won't know why, so i'll simply suppose it's you again, coming round my room in the middle of the night, putting your hands on everything, dreaming the prints will poison me. i wish just the once i'd wake up.

3: so what if i miss you? haven't you ever cried for the demolition of a slaughterhouse?

4: well, it's just—i don't know who'll spill my blood now.