Sundays are for kissed freckles. I flip ahead in notebooks because I like the way blank-page endings refuse to stop. There are different ways to measure distance and we use inches to collect rain from the sky. I write words with your shoulder-blades and you rearrange the positions of my bones. We memorise the journey home because we are awake in our dreams. Hungry is a word to describe my heart when my lungs don’t get enough of you. You wear desire well, and I wear yours even better.