Tag Archives: writing


In the small hours of the morning, the night is blue with the hanging pall of cigarette smoke, of promises made and broken, I love you and fuck no and God yes, yes. You should be at home, you should be in bed, you shouldn’t have drunk this much. But here you are, in a basement bar that you couldn’t find your way home from if you tried, breathing in that blue smoky air, body pressed tight to another, slumping into their arms.

The notes come creeping and smooth, easing themselves through the crowd. You’re tired and drunk and a little in love. The shuffle of feet and the heart beating against yours is like a heavy lullaby, soothing you away to nothing but this moment, this here, this now, this us.