It seems you are woven into the fabric of me. You are in the water of the scalding-hot bath I deliberately force myself into. You are in forehead kisses and hard fucks. You are in the mouth of my six-year-old nephew, who asks why you’re not there at Christmas. You’re in crunchy peanut butter, Game of Thrones and Hackney; in fact, you’re the entire borough. If I were a sponge cake you would be in every grain of sugar, marching through me. You are sweet and salt, pain and perpetuity – inextricably linked to any semblance of hope.
