Words poured like lac from your mouth. Their meaning thick crimson - crushed and constringed - straining through the march of red ants that always fed them. I walked through ivory gates - my claudicating limbs carefully avoiding the sticky word bogs that swaled around me. But it was Sunday and I was insolated by dayglo hope, singed, ready for anything. The stench of bacon, sweat and prayers brinish in the air. Me. You. Bounden by nothing, not here. Not anymore. I was starving so I stroked your cyanotic skin, hoping the heat of my fingertips would make that frozen land-mined, armour-plated heart you stilled beat again.