Mid-air There is a corner of the city where the air is soft resin. Step in and it hardens around you. Suspended in amber. We made the mistake of kissing there. I mean, here. Our mouths midway across the same inhalation like robbers mid-leap between rooftops. If kisses were scored by composers they’d place the breath on the upbeat. Oh God. Music preceded by mid-air, when the baton lifts, the orchestra tightens: ‘And’ before the ‘one two three.’ And the sunlight is meticulous. And the river holds its tongue. And your silver earring steels like an aerialist’s hoop, caught mid-spin. A note almost sung. Locked in the amber of the and. We just want to land or be landed on. 9