Style is the game that we play.
Three years, now push and pull and push and pull and pull and push
An endless cycle of edging and hiding, and mainly hiding.
I do not like to repeat words: that is not my style.
But with you there has been, and still is, the incessant repetition:
It will probably always be there, t h e r h y t h m :
I'd say we egg each other on, but that shows fertility
and all that we have is sterile, futile ambiguity
The ambiguity of longing and despair
An odour strong enough to stick to our legs like pheromones.
And yet, I come home and you go home and she waits at home and we are all immobilised by the same sensation of knowing, the same ignorance of wanting this to not have happened.
So I ask you to listen with me; Keaton Henson in mourning, Just as we sit and wonder, Drifting down the same vein of the Trent.