Pulling this out of me only because I would be sorry if I didn’t.
Made my way home from Liverpool Street station today on foot, Harvest accompanying me because it makes me see faces I don’t want to forget, though I know I will in this city a hundred thousand times bigger than the rivertown I left. When I go to sleep at night it’s your jaw that comes to me, the bone of your cheek. But I’m not sad, and I’m not lonely. I’m buying figs at the greengrocer, the one with the vinyl flooring covered in bright fruits and veg, fading somehow into ocean in the back of the shop. (That makes sense, but won’t to you until I photograph it). I’m running along the canal, I’m weaving my way through the flower market, I’m emerging pink and sweating from the underground into sunlight and feeling just fine. It’s the shape of your skull that comes into my palm when I let my mind unfocus, practicing my commute. It’s the crows’ feet, it’s the soft blonde, it’s the muscles in your back that unravel me, still, the grip of the tips of my fingers on your right arm as you point lefthanded to the pieces of the city you made with your broken bones. It’s the gifts I want to give you. The yelling across ocean and continent for you. It’s the shock of myself staggered and firm and drawing in air. It’s all I wanted and more and the getting and the going and the things I can’t write yet (not tender, but Tender still). All of that in the rush of this place that opens up CEASELESS, each corner a turn into a void made startlingly, agonizingly beautiful by the corner beyond it: staring into it, being stared into; washing through it and also being washed through. Destroyed, unloved, dirty. Magnificent, restless place.