In heated flesh and wine-stained breath I see your grandad lines. Our future lies between the
sheets, where authored dreams trail down my neck, splodged in black and blue. But in your
tussled hair and moony eyes I glimpse a different path: where private thoughts are public
made and we are seen at last. Oh architect of sorrow, you lover of not enough, I think
sometimes a fairy thought that you might feel as much. But daylight breaks and your sordid
smile is soon replaced by that dimple of regret, and the question of what happens next hangs
distastefully from our lips.