She makes me think of old songs, old songs and isolation. She makes me feel like I’m an island, falling off from the  main shore. She makes me feel like a borrowed good time, on loan from down the street.

She comes on like the lights coming on in the dark, like something shocking and willful and necessary. She’s so fucking necessary. She’s my favourite necessity. She wraps my throat in bandages and puts me down for the night.

If I could make an escape, I’d make it out of stray bits I found in that cupboard in the kitchen; I’d make my escape out of half-used tripple-A batteries and loose clips of string. Twist-ties and take-out menus.

If I could make an escape I’d take you with me, but you’d hate to escape with me, wouldn’t you? That’d just be moving into a different sized cage for you.