I love when the oysters sing holiday, when her benevolent smile beckons me from the showering twilight like a raven falling, changing into a star. And let us say what the whales will never, let me speak in the dialect of the deceased, let me see what heaven looks like upon her knees and let me dream…

My soul is nothing more then the accumulation of what I cannot remember- let me remember something:

Moment number sixty-six.

You had cut your hair, your rich dark waterfall hair, and thus, upon parting with such beautiful strands- filaments of a cosmic heaven- you had tied a lock in a ribbon and handed it to me, your little old man.

Moment number twenty-four.

It was the first time I saw you fully undressed; my eyes, like magnificent stars, composed, not falling, of the reflection of the curves, the symmetry, the love which the heavens had created you with.

Moment number eighty-nine.

I am but a slight bit taller then you, and as such, on those days, those wonderful days when you stood, tip-toe, your arms snug around me, gazing up upon my eyes as the deep dark brown of your irises opened and we met in a moment of absolute harmony.

Moment number thirteen.

When I had dumped ale upon your head and said, ‘My, I love you.’

Moment number eight.

When I fell in love with you for the second time.

Moment number eight continued.

Coffee and cold weather and I remember exactly what you were wearing, what I was wearing. I was nervous, I am nervous, for in this moment I relive another, the one I write of. I crossed my legs, I talked, you listened, you talked- your hair, I am bemused by your never-ending hair- and it gets colder so we walk, we leave…