This morning, you were in my shower. Last night, my spaghetti. You are my bus ride home, my cathedral bell, my broken printer and my pinot grigio. You are every decision I ever made or didn’t make, the broken ones, the half-formed ones; you are my favourite bad idea.
You are all of my moments, the sum of all my memories gone and all those yet to make. You are every fight I have not had. You are my bedtime story, my lullaby, my neon sign.
You are my heavy heart, my bleeding, beating drummer, my marching band, my requiem. You are every word on my sheet and every space in my sheets. You are the cold side of the pillow, you are the warm side of the bed.
You are every sleep-wiping morning, every alcoholic night, every step in this place or that place. You are my cartographer, my atlas, my destination. You are the very best of me, that is, what’s left of me.
You are cobbled streets and daytime treats. You are every single blade of grass, you are the picnic basket, you are the plastic knives and forks. You are the chair outside the café, you are the iced finger, the lemonade, the busy murmur of the chatty crowd.
You are the anticipation, my inhale, my thin, held breath, my frozen yawp. You are my heady daydream, you are my escape and my retreat, you are my frontline and you are my cavalry, my attrition.
You are a full-colour manual, you are the final piece of Lego, you are a title sequence, a last-minute winner, a best part of a song. You are a brand new album, you are my lucky socks, you are my best-loved shirt.
You are my cup of coffee, my mug of tea, my morning toast. You are my hand up your shirt, you are my rough-spun skin, my fingertips.
You are my place or yours. You are snow. You are along the river, or in the hall, or in your room. You are my Thursday nights and Friday nights, until you are all my nights, until they are all your nights.
You are my smile, and you are my tears, and you are my breath until it is too heavy that you are my last thought.
Hello, I’m Tom Hiddleston.
Original illustration by Matthew Ferguson
this is the most beautiful thing i have ever seen.
lord of the rings minimalst posters
The Avengers minimalist posters
Couldn’t write for shit tonight. I wanted to, but I’m either uninspired or indifferent, or both, which is likely. Anyway, nothing below stands up on its own, but at least together they might count for something. An evening well spent I am sure.
Bring me Tromso,
with its wide-eyed wooded summers and
endless, boundless nights.
Tell me tales of fjords and the crunch of snow;
little ghosts we make with our breaths.
Bring me Lyon
as we pass from bouchon to bouchon
nine, ten, eleven o’ clock on these narrow streets
making love in the Place Bellecour.
Bring me Paris
the entire city on a page
the lines and lines of Stein, Fitzgerald,
build an Eiffel Tower.
Bring me home,
or with you.
I do not mind.
to be in love is a writer’s curse;
‘I love you’ is already taken,
what can we do but destroy?
Poetry is so selfish
screaming look at me
atop its pile of novels
is that not love?
That your collection of words
is better than theirs?
I am no more writer than lover
just a child
with a red crayon.
I could not write.
And so I simply closed my eyes
and let the words fall out of them like ash
blind embers starting fires on the floor.