There is a picture of David Bowie and Elizabeth Taylor. It’s in black and white, and she is wearing a hat. He is holding her in his arms and smoking from the cigarette she holds between her fingers. The man with the most beautiful cheekbones and crooked teeth. And the prettiest girl in the world. That picture hung in a frame on the wall of her room, the first girl I fell in love with. She and I used to skip school. We would lie on our bellies on the floor of her room and paint on the same piece of paper. (And we were young. We were so damn young.) When we danced in the night, with orange lips and purple cheeks, he was there with us. In the songs, in the movements. In the dresses we wanted to tear apart.

When I read that David Bowie has left us, she is the first person I think of. And my teenage years. Even though he has been with me much longer than that. And has been so much bigger than that. Everyone is writing the same thing now, after his death. Because there’s nothing else to write. For all those who’ve felt off-centre, who didn’t dare but then maybe did dare. For all those who yearn away and float in dreams, there’s nothing else to write. He was made of stardust, lovely Brixton boy. He was light. Something shone within him. Through all his personas. Through Ziggy, Aladdin Sane and the Thin White Duke. Looking back, listening back, is to see him move with grace from room to room. To see him move through time. So brave and playful and inspiring. Many people needed him (Look at your children/See their faces in golden rays) and he was generous to us even though we were in different universes. In different times and different cities.

He was made of stardust, lovely Brixton boy. He was light. Something shone within him. Through all his personas. Through Ziggy, Aladdin Sane and the Thin White Duke. Looking back, listening back, is to see him move with grace from room to room. To see him move through time. So brave and playful and inspiring.

So many of us made ourselves up like him. (Oh you pretty things.) I cut my hair and longed to be a boy with innocent eyes. I didn’t know what I wanted to be or what I wanted to have, but I loved his voice and his narrow hips. So many of us danced, just danced. So many of us asked for contact. So many of us needed to be comforted. (Oh no love, you’re not alone/No matter what or who you’ve been/No matter when or where you’ve seen/All the knives seem to lacerate your brain/I’ve had my share/I’ll help you with the pain/You’re not alone.) So many of us felt our chests burst from happiness at the opening notes to “Heroes”. We felt our gaze and our blood rush. The trees tower over Puschkinallee and lilies bloom in the night. There is hope and love sometimes, even if the world is falling apart and we don’t have any money. The Wall is gone now, but the feeling of being a queen remains. Just for a day. And for that, beloved David, I am sincerely grateful.