Every evening as I trudge homewards there’s one window that reminds me of you, always lit with a starry night hung behind its pane. There’s such majesty in its strokes, even through its printed ink facade, a beckoning reminiscence captured in reproduction. This luminous forgery seems so apt in the darkness, I find myself beguiled by its solicitations and begrudging of its evocations. I want to celebrate the truth of its existence but the fact of it makes me love hating the knowledge of the lie, breeding such swirling conflict that the piece is now my favourite ruined thing.