I’m David Niven but I can’t say who you are. You’re the mystery light shining from a great big star. I’m a top gun actor but I’ve gone and lost my lines. You’re the only script writer I’d entrust with my life story. I’m dabbling in moustaches, drowning in pink gin. You’re looking cool in Errol Flynn’s swimming pool. I’ve got a yacht. You’ve got a lot more than that. I’m toying with the idea of learning Esperanto. You speak a language I’m just beginning to realise is poetry. I got a cramp last night, in my right leg. You skip and you can dance on your hands. I’m up and I’m down then I’m somewhere in the middle. You’re lava. I’m about to say something silly. You’re listening. I’m listening. You’re about to say something lovely. I’m right here. You ride your bike through springtime streets. I listen to the radio. You could burn CDs with your smile. I’m compiling a mix tape for our dizzy reunion. You stole feelings from the moon. I wish I owned a telescope. You laugh. I’m seriously delirious. You do not own a tiara. I dust off my wrinkled dinner jacket. You recall, of course, the night we heard Frank Sinatra singing to the sea and to the moon. I remember it well. You drank champagne as if it was starjuice. I ate an entire champagne glass, stem and all. You said something about holding onto everything. I translated that as meaning me. You may have meant something else. I like whirlwind romances. You saved the evening from drowning. My middle name is pink gin. Your name rhymes with many words, including love. I’m David Niven, looking up at the Hollywood skies. Our children search for a great big star whose twinkle reminds them of your eyes.