All we know is falling.

"You're not going to let me in there, are you? You've got your armour back on. That's that."

"I have no armour left. You've stripped it from me. Whatever is left of me - whatever is left of me - whatever I am - I'm yours."

The ability of another human being to possibly tear apart my insides at any moment was enough to keep me running.

"There's no such thing as perfect,"

but I can try to get as close as I friggin can.

The clouds had given their all -
two days of rain and then a break
in which we walked,

the waterlogged earth
gulping for breath at our feet
as we skirted the lake, silent and apart,

until the swans came and stopped us
with a show of tipping in unison.
As if rolling weights down their bodies to their heads

they halved themselves in the dark water,
icebergs of white feather, paused before returning again
like boats righting in rough weather.

'They mate for life' you said as they left,
porcelain over the stilling water. I didn't reply
but as we moved on through the afternoon light,

slow-stepping in the lake's shingle and sand,
I noticed our hands, that had, somehow,
swum the distance between us

and folded, one over the other,
like a pair of wings settling after flight.

by Owen Sheers

First things first;



Dirty Martini. Beautiful.