I hear your thumbs punching back
approval of the long, stretched synths
the theatrics and atmospherics
aligned with your love of Kubrick
expressed rapidly to our whole group
that afternoon on the Drumsheds floors.
Through the builds I can almost see
vividly our feet shuffling and tapping
beneath a blanket of patterned lights
pulsating across the Press Hall walls
or rather the drinks after the afters
you dancing through the brick tunnel
before a doorman’s teacherly briefing
and our sheepish, childlike compliance.
The tempo more akin to our meetings
always on the same peaceful spot
between the benched and fenced tree
and a woodlands hill of unkept grass
providing perfect views of our city
those moments feel we’re outside of.
Something in the sounds and space
has me cogitating on your weekend trips
climbing the steps of museum lobbies
picking up flyers from their counters
filling your head with artefacts and ideas
to live with, dissect and recount.
The suggestion of new beginnings
milestone discoveries or beyond those
the satisfaction of completed trips
leaves me with a vivid assortment
of adored times filed and yet to come.