Possibly unfinished. Very little isn't.
London is you around every corner.
Naked you reach up toward the shelf, take down your smokes
and light up.
On the balcony
we overlook the tracks as the train pulls in. It's cold,
but you hold me and you say something and you make me laugh. You are London over the rooftops of
West;
where we jump the train and you carry me up steps, because my heels are too high.
From up here I breathe in London and it's you
when our bodies touch, cling, sing beneath sheets to your playlists, old lover.
Brick lane when the gates open and it's open mic: you are my poetry.
