The streets are empty and cold. The wind howls like a clutch of castrated angels and hailstones fall in squadrons of iced-diamonds to bounce from liquid-ebony pavements.

At a cross-road there is a long terrace of choices, a row of properties with whitewashed facades and moonlit drapes. Blood-tipped railings protect dark stairwells that descend towards hidden basements.

Beneath a streetlight are steps that lead to a single doorway swathed in molten cobwebs, and I climb the layers of polished marble to reach the portal. My hand reaches for the door but it opens before I make contact with its silken coat.

I see a dark corridor and, at the far end, a table bearing a single candle: its flickering blue flame draws me in. And there is music. The echo of my world falling apart: a deep vibration that resonates across the atrium, the call of humpbacks patrolling the bow-waves of my emotions.

I take a step onto carpets of memories.

To my right there is an archway and beyond its curved entrance we lie together. A chorus of evening symphonies sing to us as love spills from the rent at the centre of my life. Friends hover in the corners of this scene, crying at our shadows. The sound of their grief fades to nothing, leaving only the after-taste of lilac pollen and balsamic.

To my left, the space though another arch is filled with whirlpools of impenetrable mist. As the swirling clouds rise and fall they beckon me to a place and time that I have yet to know. I ask if I will see you there. But there is no reply.

The flame of the candle tells me it is my choice: to move on or to retreat.

I choose the future.

And I leave you behind.