Next to the wall under and away from the dim lights, you almost stay unrecognisable. But we find our way back blindfolded and guiltily anyway.

But surprisingly, it’s shocking up much the body remembers. Every hard ridge, every soft curve, every sharp jut and every rough edge. It’s not enough though, and most importantly, it’s the muscle that remembers and it’s the hands that find their way home. You can find the remains of your heart on the ridges of my spine, between each vertebrate and the grooves of my ribs. Tear apart your memory from right down through the nerves on my lower back and through the cells on my fingerpads. Then scoop back your tears from the hollows of my clavicles and the curves of my shoulders.

Because who will love you?