You’ve been hinting, in your own special way, that we should move in together. The notes on my pillow, the casually strewn paint charts, the boxes of your belongings in my living room. You’re beautiful when you’re subtle.
We lie out on the lawn and you blow smoke at the sky through your nostrils, like a dragon.
What’s your address? you say.
Why do you ask?
It’s just that you haven’t got a house number.
What’s the use? I know where I live.
It’s just strange—like you don’t want anyone to find you.
We lie in silence until it gets dark, until we start to taste the sting of rising cold.
Our relationship isn’t that different to sculpting a piece of metal. You’ve only got so much time to bend and shape it—while it’s red-hot and controlled by outer forces—before it cools and hardens, into definition, into a wrought-iron reality.
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