In the softest stretch of skin across his forehead.
Under layers of soft cotton, flannel and down.
In a hotel lobby that looks like the future.
In the invisible wilderness Miles Davis maps out with his horn.
Around thick wooden tables in pubs with my friends.
In every trace of emotion that plays across their faces when they tell me a story.
In the missing, and the miles between us.
In the way she smiles when she tells me she's feeling sunny these days.
On the subway stairs when my feet slip, and on the handrail that steadies me.
In the kitchen after dark.
In black or blue or maroon ink as it grazes across the page.
In the sweet relief of sleep, and whatever dreams may find me.
Read more January 2014 writings here.