He’s Clapton and coffee and old yellowed pages.
He’s sheet music and apple pie with vanilla from a pint.
He’s steaming showers and bars of Old Spice.
He’s dark beer foam and hazelnut comfort.
He’s whiskey and olives and ink-stained palms.
He’s worn hardwood floors and hot sheets out of the dryer.
He’s Thai food and stacks of stationery and a new pack of pens.
He’s watercolours and poems and lazy Sunday brunch.
He’s long drives and new places and thoughtful conversation.
He’s warm hands and silky hair and a strong heartbeat.
He’s thunderstorms and shooting stars and freshly fallen snow.
He’s effortless ease and loose laughter and perfect possibility.
He’s déjà vu.
Sarah Munn 