They sit pensively either side of the table, suspended in silence, politely ignoring each other yet acutely aware of the other’s existence.

“It’s all we’ve got” she said. “Rusty vessels of emotions long since drunk, clattering along on the end of our heart strings like cans on a wedding car.”

Thrust outside to learn to go back in, under the cold hard light of our own judgement, fighting the faces of our fears, painting them in new mirrors.

“Let me love”

She stiffened. A thin icy glaze seeping from her pores, coating her in a protective shield, frozen in time. ‘Stop pre-empting. How do you feel? It’s OK to believe. Is it? Walking the tightrope. We don’t have forever, only this moment, and right there everything cannot not be perfect.’

Everything is illuminated. What is love but a speeding train of light hurtling around the core, grabbing your heart by the strings and shooting it up and down like some white knuckle ride of the innards. Walk with me, down a dark road coated with a hazy fog that makes the streetlights shine brighter. Betwixed the fabric of our existence dance with me, pour light streams into this dusty old world.

I ride blind into this new unknown shape of you. The ceilings are higher here. Floating cautiously upwards in case there are none at all and I wind up little more than the glint in the eye of a supernova suspended eternally in weightless space.

Would it be so bad?

I see your face in my dreams. It’s the same. I feel your eyes flood into my soul. You left something there. Some spark or forgotten ember of an ancient flame.

Breathlessness creeps in at times, I have to close to keep it in. So familiar but not in this life. Perhaps not even in this world.

And everything falls away until there’s nothing left but the cyclone of atoms dancing the tango at the centre of all that is, that you are, that I am.

Who are you? We’ve danced this way before.

While the shadows keep to the darkness the orbit speeds up. Spill into the senses a cocktail of perception. Weave notes through dark matter. Birds dive and fish fly and the storm whips up a frenzy, head over heels dancing circles in the undercurrent, awash with tiny irridescent air pockets rushing back to the surface they know so well.

How terribly strange to be anything at all. How wonderful to be alive.

Slipping through the fabric they found the cave behind the waterfall and lit a fire.

The present moment holds such a sensory overload it’s no wonder we flee to the depths of our minds for fabricated memories and the hypothetical experience of the future. Could it be that deja vu is just a little piece of us from the future remembering our past? For just a moment is it possible to be both?

Firing arrows between neurons, dot to dot across stars hanging silently behind bare branches, threads of thought through inner space, enticing fragments of imagination to make out under the blanket of twilight.

Clothe me in songs of silk

I want a gown of lucid dreams

For day will soon break

What then?

A mirror ball, disco dreaming. The stories surround like a multifaceted fog. Clouds of all the colours swirling their screenplay at the mercy of the paintbrush of your song.