I write a letter at the end of everything, only sending it finally when I am ready to hand over to the next.

Seven years I have spent sipping at the smoked throb of at least 200 hearts.

I felt quite often that I was just ten minutes faster than you, always losing my wallet in your seams. But your hugeness never swamped me, you always gave me enough pockets and fine edges that I felt sweet even in my foulest mood.

Our talent was in our thirst, mostly. Fitting fifteen days into 5 hours felt forever with you. Pieces of jobs and slim suits and wet cheeks pressed onto dirty bus windows flip through my thoughts and I kiss you and keep you at the top of my mind for a good time. With crossed legs on tubes, hiding my lunch under a big book, always making me feel like playing at being a grown up. I know I grew this me while inside of you and I know your wide walls do not weep as I drive out alone.

You’ll be the big boyfriend, the one who taught lessons on falling in love, writing hate mail to myself, faking a broken heart, crying into pizza(s), laughing so loudly that I get chucked out of the restaurant and watching friends die and taking with them a piece of you, and me, too.

You gave me the first part.

I have full eyes to see your new girls come in and take my seat but you can keep the throne warm for my visits.

I’m heartbroken now in a kintsugi way: the gold rivers welded with fragments of your sills and my laughter. Your sills and my laughter and our bottle tops pressing into the soles of the figures I left with you.

Love you London loads and I’ll never know you better than now.

Sweet, sweet, sticky-toed palms are teetering, and I am playing with mind-spun pine as I sit. “Two go in," shouting a little further out but I can hear your wings whispering How obviously before I’d not have stopped to snap, A millionaire or more might have kept us apart or felt us a little wrong. In front of you, suddenly: a tightrope. Sun-blessed on a side but retaining extra shadows. I am watching you daring to ascend, tooth per tooth until new pine reached. More wisdom than I could offer and more stillness than contained in my breath. Wings whisper a little louder.

“But yes I miss sharing. Sharing seats sharing drinks sharing ciggies and dance floors and beds and hands and hearts. Sharing spit and swapping snot and dropping fivers and T shirts and sharing shit stories and coffees and supper tables and tube journeys and bus conversations and shoes. I miss sharing the pavement and eye contact and shaking hands, skipping high 5s, making out just ‘cos you’re mates and stealing socks. Sharing breakfast, sharing taxis sharing songs and band mates and bathrooms. I miss sharing bits of my brain and the inside of my mouth and getting under your fingernails and being really gross and I miss running for the bus. I miss swapping change and sharing books and looking at someone wearing a really nice coat. Sharing pints and filming everything and sharing underwear and losing our wallets. Sharing stupidity and new ideas and project planning, booking flights sharing maps and eating off the floor.”