A poem that enters, turns, and returns.

We begin with breath.
No armour.
No agenda.
Just warmth,
and the soft thud of being.

You may adjust grip,
angle,
proximity.
I will not interpret this as rejection.
All shifts are sacred.

Silence honoured.
Tears allowed.
Laughter welcome.
Back rubs negotiable.
Hair strokes optional.

Includes shoulders,
spine,
sighs,
and the right to be held without fixing.

Until the ache softens.
Until the kettle boils.
Until one of us whispers “okay.”
Extensions permitted.
No expiry date.
________________

No expiry date.
Extensions permitted.
Until one of us whispers “okay.”
Until the kettle boils.
Until the ache softens.

And the right to be held without fixing.
Sighs,
spine,
shoulders included.

Hair strokes optional.
Back rubs negotiable.
Laughter welcome.
Tears allowed.
Silence honoured.

All shifts are sacred.
I will not interpret this as rejection.
Proximity,
angle,
grip - adjust as needed.

Just warmth,
no agenda,
no armour.
We end with breath.

A consensual agreement between two warm-blooded beings, effective immediately.

Clause 1:
Duration This embrace shall last:
      – until the kettle boils,
      – until the ache softens,
      – until one of us whispers “okay.”
Extensions permitted.
No expiry date.

Clause 2:
Scope Coverage includes:
      – shoulders, spine, sighs,
      – optional forehead press,
      – the right to be held without fixing.
Add-ons negotiable:
back rubs, hair strokes, gentle rocking.

Clause 3:
Conditions Entry requires:
      – no armour,
      – no agenda,
      – just breath, and the soft thud of being.
Laughter welcome. Tears allowed. Silence honoured.

Clause 4:
Amendments
You may adjust grip, angle, or proximity. I will not interpret this as rejection.
All shifts are sacred.
All pauses are respected.

Clause 5:
Termination May be initiated by either party with a gentle squeeze, a kiss to the temple, or the phrase “thank you.”
No ghosting.
No guilt.

Clause 6:
Renewal Available upon request.
No cooldown period.
No password required.
Just say “again?”
and
I’ll say “yes.”

Clause 7:
Accessibility
This embrace is wheelchair-friendly,
neurodivergent-affirming,
and kink-aware.
It welcomes,
weighted blankets,
stim toys,
and the need to say
“not today.”

Clause 8:
Reciprocity
You give warmth.
You receive warmth.
No tally kept.
No ledger owed.
Only the shared currency of presence.

Signed,
Your pulse.
Your warmth.
Your yes.
And mine.

On the last Friday of each month, the poets gather  
not in one room, but in the hush between screens,
the glow of shared breath and blinking cursors.

They come with verses tucked in sleeves,
with metaphors still warm from the pan,
with hearts half-rhymed and stanzas that ache to be heard.

This month, the theme is Equinox!
balance, breath, the tilt of light.
Some write of harvest moons,
others of lovers crossing hemispheres,
some of grief that splits the day clean as shadow.

One speaks of sugar levels and sunrise.
Another, of church bells and glucose meters.
Someone reads a mirrored poem that turns
at the solstice line and walks back through itself.

There is laughter -
the kind that lifts like foam.
There is silence -
the kind that listens.

And when the last poem lands,
when the final line finds its echo,
they linger,
not to critique,
but to hold the weight of each word
like a mug of something warm.

The meeting ends,
but the poems keep orbiting,
little equinoxes of thought,
balancing dark
and light
in the inbox of the soul.

We met between keystrokes,
late-night tabs and brave little emojis,
typing…
deleting…
typing...
two cursors blinking in the dark.

Your icon learned my weather,
the rain at midnight.
We traded:
playlists,
pixels,
promises,
and ran fingers over the glass
until it almost felt like skin.

Consent checkbox,
ticked,
terms actually read:
no rush,
all green lights,
safe word,
favourited,
like a star.

Then IRL:
neon on wet pavement,
the platform clock read midnight,
your laugh uploaded into the room
and clearing my cache of doubt.

You were warmer than the camera,
brighter than the filter,
and my name sounded new
when your mouth said it out loud.

We buffered between yes,
and yes,
hands hovering,
close as breath,
two magnets doing their patient work,
savouring the pull.

Your jacket
found my shoulder.
My pulse
found your wrist.
We turned the night low
and went full-screen on now.

No screenshot,
only heartbeat.
No captions,
only heat.
The world scrolled by like ads
we didn’t need to read.

We learned each other’s edges
the way a password learns its keeper:
slow,
precise,
certain,
click,
open,
welcome.

By dawn, the sky refreshed:
two mugs on one sill,
thumbs still warm,
and messages we no longer need to send.

Tonight, the cork is a comet.
We let it fly.

Foam lifts like a chorus,
all silver breath and bright insistence,
a thousand soft explosions
tearing little curtains
from our careful, quiet selves.

No rope, no rules.
Only the fizzing, yes, of bodies
remembering their own weather:
warm fronts of laughter,
pressure dropping,
sweet rain on the tongue.

We pass the bottle the way stars pass light:
hand to hand,
mouth to mouth of the night,
tiny galaxies bursting on our lips
and running down our wrists
like blessings that refuse napkins.

The room loosens its belt.
Chairs drift to the walls.
Music finds its animal,
pads closer,
lays down between our ribs
and purrs.

We move in the language of open windows.
We toast to the soft click
of every clasp we don’t need,
to the hinge that learns to swing
without apology.

No restraints - only consent,
clear as crystal,
ringing the glass.
We listen for that note,
we sing it back,
we pour it over the floor
until even the shadows glitter.

By midnight, gravity is generous.
We sway like lanterns,
like ships unmoored from shame,
carrying our own lighthouses
in the hollows of our throats.

One more sip for courage,
one more for kindness,
one more for the hands we hold out
and the hands that choose them.

And if the bottle ends,
let the night be the next one:
uncorked,
still rising,
still bright on the tongue.

I’ll be your man receptacle—            (receptacle)
your plug-in port,                       (port)
your catch-all slot,                     (slot)
the place you dump your day—             (your day)
your sweat, your spit, your not-quite-love. (not-quite-love)

Bring your hard.                         (bring it)
Bring your mess.                         (bring it)
Bring half-finished fantasies,           (bring it)
your full-throttle need.                 (bring it)

I’m not here to flinch.                  (no flinch)
I’m here to take it—                     (take it)
grin wide, legs spread, heart open       (open)
like a ******* mailbox.                  (mailbox)

You wanna unload? I’m the bin.           (the bin)
You wanna test the edge? I’m the rim.    (the rim)

I hold your heat                          (hold)
like a mug holds whiskey,                 (whiskey)
like a glove grips filth,                 (grip)
like a mouth keeps names                  (keep)
it never learned to spell.                (spell)

I’m not delicate. I’m designed—           (designed)
for impact, for intake,                   (intake)
for the holy art                          (holy)
of receiving without shame.               (no shame)

So go on. Make it crude.                  (crude)
Make it real. Make it yours.              (yours)

I’ll be your man receptacle.              (receptacle)
I’ll love every drop.                     (every drop)

A screen awaits,
blue‑white and plain,
a single box
that knows my name.

I type, I tap,
a code arrives,
a tiny bridge
to guarded lives.

Behind this gate:
my records breathe,
the dates, the scans,
the truths they weave.

Prescriptions wait
like folded notes,
appointments hum
in patient throats.

No marble halls,
no paper queue,
just keystrokes,
proof, and passing through.

And in this space
of click and care,
the NHS
is everywhere.