trying to write...failing...

[parenthesised]

You are old,

my love, the cold

wraps its arms around you, clammy

fingers on skin. And

beckons you, through

an alley where the dead men

lost their drinks. As we end

they begin

to twist their words to

match the day, the

saving time we

waste

away.

And,

when it's done, and

we run home

like rats before

the storm

the rest of our

lives. You

catch your breath, catch

yourself, as you stumble

forwards. Cut yourself

on the night.

So

give me fire, burning

passion, cold as

nails, quite as bright, to

chase away the clinging

fear, that

we are old.

That it's not our night.