The breath of our breathing is the soundtrack to our evening. He’s fingering the pages of my life, words and unwritten things mingling in an atmosphere of perspiration and possibilities. Maybe he’ll melt right in front of me; maybe I’ll melt into his-tory…or maybe we’ll melt together, immortalised like molten rock into a volcanic island stranded in a place of memory. Don’t speak. Don’t use my name. The waters ebbing as the moon wills them outside our window have no name. That’s what makes them both real and ethereal. And our condensation, running down your spine like a river builds momentum as it rushes to the ocean that only appears in our imagination. Our imaginations are identical twins wrestling their way to an inevitable ending, somewhere, someday. The ending is the beginning. You are just as real as the thought of heaven, as clear as a vision of God, as near to me as death.