One lover brought me flowers and another brought me God.

One lover brought me flowers and another brought me God; straight through from the screen into meaning, one voice meets another in a smoky subterranean bar (disappearing in fast number these rumpus-room arrangements). About travel, and fantasy and trauma and scotch we whittled down the night until the grey dawn came rapping and our sudden sobriety pulled us into that which matters. The violence of the new day, prying off the cover of night and I heard a truth there – in my heart; in that shift between dark and day, between tipsy and straight and was pinned down in a conversation that took my hand by surprise and lead me through. What stranger could provoke this in me, some madness says the rational, but the mystic says no. Intention. An appropriate juncture for leaving old things behind. Profound and still unpretentious, a whisper against the neck, a sigh for what will not be. Footsteps away. And away. And alone.