Whatever get you through the night, it's all right, it's all right.

thanks loui

She was dressed in red; I should probably have heeded this sign.

Her skin shone with the temptation of unpicked fruit, her hair - the colour of early morning sunlight lying on fresh fallen snow – had been frozen and then combed.

It was something her father in Romania had taught her.

We embraced, I was clumsy; she was strong.

Her perfume offered intoxication.

And ruin.

Her name was Sylvia.

And then she left.

I sat at the table; a microphone; an empty glass; a photo frame of random images stuck awkwardly with glue, someone opposite.

Others gathered around, there was silence and I was thrust a scrap of green paper, faded and covered in incoherent script.

I was glad she was gone, yet I longed to see her again.

No one told me to begin and no one informed me of the camera’s rolling or what to say.

I mumbled, trying to find a voice – after all, what did they expect?

I asked for a drink, someone poured; I looked at the photo frame and read aloud what I found.

It made no sense, yet every sense.

Unwitting Universe.

You drank my wine.

You ate at my table.

And now I will pursue you into hell.

Some applauded.

Others stood in silence, in the dream, which is so hard to capture and hold still.