We pushed two single beds together and you wrote on the photo that I had died of alcohol poisoning a beer clutched to my chest or a broken heart as shards of glass poked through my dress. Now I sleep sideways on other people's sofas and other people keep hold of my internal organs - what's left - and despite everything I still hold my breath when I cross the road looking both ways first. I remember the field covered in a thick layer of fog as we stood contemplating where was best to love each other and I remember after we'd ran across an entirely different field you left me there and I froze to death and then we didn't. Always a coward with front doors and hellos I threw tiny stones at your window perhaps because you can't ask someone to leave by the window. They just fall.