I can only pretend the soft shadows pooled in the melts of your black and white lava skin, your raspy, abstract voice frazzling across my cement planned sentences and I wonder if you find this as awkward as I do (?). imagining your face through these ochre tones (I forget what colour your eyes are) and my supple hessian face could be whatever. (who do you think I am?). I’m trying to work out if a stolen conversation constitutes a relation - adequately - music whispers quietly “love should be comfortable” , like some old damp sofa, and maybe it isn’t. I hope you’re never counting on my logic (?)