We talk of rust and tin and a five year plan as rain pounds down on an old convent roof. I remember you from a time long gone, on a street at the top of where we both lay claim. Your face- weathered, misted; beautiful, haunts the deepest parts of me. Eyes- bluer than cloudless skies, greyer than industrial steel; majestic in the Autumn haze. Rust spills out of cracks in the world and I imagine the rest of our days spent under decaying sheds, in the West.