i don’t think I found myself in the poetry, i think i am finding myself in your arms under the gentle pressure of your fingertips and the velvet embrace of your words. they think I found myself in the halls of the airport that it walked alone but i think i am finding myself in the kitchen of your flat, waiting for the kettle to come to a boil; in cups of tea nursed at the table and I hope that’s okay. i sip in the same tentative manner that i reach for your hand in the dark; you may have the effervescent beauty of a tree in the autumn but right now i would like to lace my fingers with yours and be human together. i hope that’s okay. you are like literature and myth; a deep and sprawling spectrum of contradictions and complexities. i feel like teiresias; blind and trapped within my own self-made cocoon of spiralling thoughts. eyes closed i reach for your hand. i almost miss my stop on the last train home spilling out sweet words about your everything. her hair straight out of bed with soft eyes and parted lips, sculpted by aphrodite; carved from the finest marble i want her to pin me down, to the bed, to reality- her lips, to guide me from her waist and back to sanity. early in the morning when she wakes up tangled in sheets with her eyes peeking up over her phone, soft smile on her lips. the world stands still in the soft glow of flickering street lights like visible heartbeats, glowing and not glowing in tandem, and the windows are frosted along the edges; worrying a cracked lip between my front teeth i realise this may be the most I have ever thought about tea. our fingers tangle, grasp sheets or cheeks rosy with first-kiss smiles. eyelids crinkle. you are butterflies in my stomach, fear and exhilaration, honesty and hope you are listening to the same song on repeat; your laugh is the song stuck in my head, every song i’ve ever loved, the only song i want to listen to.