I lay awake at four, staring at the wall, counting all the cracks backwards in my best French.

Reminds me of a book I skim read in a surgery, all about palmistry I wonder what’s in store for me.

I pretend the plaster is the skin on my palms and the cracks are representative of what is going on.

I lose a breath, my love line seems entwined with death (could be a spider web)…I’m thinking of you too.

I lay awake at three, staring at the ceiling.

It’s a kind of off-white, maybe it’s a cream.

There’s oily residue seeping from the kitchen, it’s art-deco-necromantic-chic all the dinner plates are kitsch with Irish wolf-hounds, French baguettes wrapped loose around their necks, I think I’m hungry…I’m thinking of you too.

I’m thinking of you too. I’m thinking of you too. I’m thinking of you.

Wondering what you’re doing, what you’re listening to, which quarter of the moon you’re viewing from the bedroom.

Watching all the movies, drinking all the smoothies, swimming at the pool…I’m thinking of you too.

I’m thinking of you too.

I’m thinking of you too.

I’m thinking of you too.

I’m thinking of you too.

I’m thinking of you.