"Days spinning by like pinwheels and each one leaves an afterimage, sunburnt, on my eyelids whose thin veils do little to bring the night closer, or shut the world out. Drawing monograms on the back of paper napkins, your letters all tangled up with mine, only I have too many names and the S’s swallow you up with the evening waves. Home to paperback mountains, a fortress by my bedside, so it’s just me and the mouse whispers and the girl in the mirror with the charcoal eyes which say I’ll miss you all the more when you’re here."