I’m in love with a tailor. At sundown he weaves his flesh with mine and his tongue speaks words of lace. Under the raindrops I see the rich colours of French tapestry in his eyes. I’m in love with a tailor who spins my silk spine into golden thread. After the spool is wound, I lay like a naked woman in a Renaissance painting and study his marble face gleam from the flame of a candlestick as he mends together tattered fabric. I’m in love with a tailor who sits with a freshly lit cigarette resting in a glass ashtray beside him, every couple stitches replacing the needle in his fingertips for a Belmont pressed between his lips. He exhales and I watch his breath dance to the ceiling. I’m in love with a tailor whose passionate gaze trails along my curves. I hold his gentle hands, the same ones that pleat together elegant garments out of torn cloth, and I feel the magic of two souls, two hearts, two minds coming together and tied simply with ribbon.