Will you join me for dinner this week?

This week, I’ve been thinking about tension—the way it sharpens everything, pulling my focus to the present even when the source feels distant.

It’s like a thread running through my life, quietly tugging at my attention, guiding it to exactly where it needs to be.

There’s something captivating about how it clarifies, distills, and transforms the ordinary into something vivid, tangible, and undeniably real.

If you’re feeling tension right now—whether you’re seeking it or it’s weighing heavily—I hope this perspective offers you another way to experience it.

Tension

I fumble my headphones as the warmth of the room envelops me. The soft murmur of silverware and conversation drifts through a delicate haze of red wine and candlelight. I’m late. Scanning the room, I catch myself searching for her, though I know I’m early. A couple brushes past, gently nudging me aside, and I realize I’ve been blocking the doorway. The maître d’, with a knowing smile, prompts me for my name.

Unwinding myself from my winter coat, my headphones slip and tumble to the floor, breaking the stillness with a faint, clumsy thud. I pause, inhaling deeply, as my legs resist the act of bending to pick them up. The air is thick but grounding, my lungs anchoring me to the moment. Still, the tug of nicotine teases me—not for the tobacco itself, but for the reprieve it offers. A moment to gather, to step back before stepping in.

The soft wood beneath my shoes hums faintly with each step toward the table, the rhythm steadying me. I’ve chosen the corner, as always. It’s instinctive—the sound feels sharper, the edges cleaner, and there’s nothing behind you. The corner holds a quiet authority, a vantage point that feels steady and grounded. She’ll sit there, and I’ll let her have it. Even though part of me wants that safety, I know it’s short-lived. Maybe letting her feel it is enough—something steady, even if just for a moment.

The flicker of candlelight paints shifting shadows across the wall as I take my seat. The low dip in conversation behind me catches my ear, a faint lull that speaks of something unspoken. My eyes drift to the chair opposite, to the soft glow pooling around it. I already see her there, framed by the light, even though she’s not yet arrived.

Delay

It’s been too long since we last met. In the silence between our exchanges, I feel the ebb and pull of whatever this is—something impossible to name but impossible to ignore. The quiet lets it grow; the words we trade keep it alive. But these rare moments, when we’re in the same room, undo me.

She’ll be here soon. I know it, and yet I steel myself for the possibility of waiting. A long wait is its own kind of game, a lingering pull that I can’t decide if I dread or crave.

The waitress approaches, breaking my train of thought. She greets me with a soft smile, water bottle in hand, and pauses to introduce herself. Her voice is light, practiced, but kind. I nod and glance at the menu, murmuring something noncommittal. As she twists the cap open, the quiet pop echoes faintly in the space between us. The water pours out smoothly, the sound steadying. I thank her, briefly, before she steps away, leaving me with the faint chill of condensation against my fingers.

I glance at the wine list, the words jumbled across the page. I stop short of making a choice. I know what I want, but there are two people dancing tonight.

The bathroom is my next retreat. The space is small but feels oddly expansive, the silence wrapping around me. Warm water runs over my hands, soothing and grounding. The faint scent it leaves is clean but smoky, like cedar or distant embers—softly persistent, without being overpowering. The towels are thick and textured, a reassuring counterpoint to the warmth of my skin. I linger a moment longer than I need to. The mirror reflects a version of me I know well, but in this moment, I feel slightly undone—like I’m catching up to the man in the glass.

Back at the table, the smoky trace of cedar from my hands mingles with the air, subtle and grounding. I settle into the chair again, letting the water on my tongue calm me. The metallic click of her glass bottle being set down lingers in the air. I exhale deeply, a final breath before the night begins.

Distance

It’s been a while since we last met. Whatever this is between us moves in cycles, circling the rhythms of our separate lives. It feels sacred somehow—held together by the distance, protected by stretches of space and time. Somewhere outside the edges of reality, we’ve carved a place where we can both feel known and seen, unburdened by the trappings of routine or commitment.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s this freedom that allows us to be honest. When we’re apart, the space we’ve created feels weightless, effortless. It doesn’t ask anything of us. But tonight, in moments like this, I know there’s something unresolved—an unspoken tension we both need to feel. Without it, how could we know what’s real?

I relax into the room’s ambiance, letting the low murmur of voices and the flicker of candlelight settle over me. But the tension doesn’t leave. It lingers—first in my hands and chest, then pooling in my feet. Even as they press steady against the floor, part of me feels restless, like I’m searching for a way to send the energy into the ground, to release it.

My gaze drifts, scanning the room. Plates and glasses reflect the soft glow of overhead lights. The faces around me seem warm, animated—people laughing, lost in their own stories. I let my focus shift, let my mind follow their ease, and slowly, I feel myself begin to relax.

Still, it’s there, humming quietly beneath it all. I don’t know why I’m like this, but I am. We both know tonight is just a dinner—an evening between two friends. There will be moments of gentle flirting, glances that hold a flicker too long, and an undercurrent of intrigue. Excitement, perhaps, but nothing more.

At least, that’s what we tell ourselves.

From afar, tension is easier to hold. It can live in that weightless space, coming and going without consequence. It never demands, never oversteps. But in the dance of reality, tension carries a sharper edge, a sense of danger. The closer you get, the hotter the flames of excitement burn.

And when those flames catch, when the scent of smoke clings to your clothes, you start to wonder—will you step back, find a way to scrub it out, or will you let yourself get addicted all over again?

Chocolate

I think back to a conversation I had yesterday about chocolate. There’s a moment, just before you eat it, when your brain lights up—dopamine receptors firing in anticipation. It’s not the taste itself but the unknowing, the in-between, that electrifies you. That’s the space I’m in now, and my mind is alight.

It’s that split second before everything comes together that we truly love. The questions of what now and what if. That space where there isn’t enough room in your mind to grasp what’s happening, where you’re so focused, so attuned, that you’re entirely at one with wherever the boat is going.

There’s a strange security in it—a safety that comes with tension and desire. When there’s a pull, you know there’s a connection, like a rope tied to you as you lean over the edge. It stretches, sometimes slackens, but when what you’re staring at begins to scare you, it tightens just enough to let you know you’re still wanted.

Maybe that’s what we’re all searching for. A gentle tug of connection when we need it. Some warm signal that it’s safe to explore because something, someone, is tethered to us, holding us.

Or maybe it’s the tension that tells us we’re alive, that we’re moving somewhere. Pulling on the lead to spark a reaction, to fill the void of boredom, to feel something sharp in an otherwise grey experience. It’s the jolt, the spike, the reminder that life still has edges.

And perhaps it’s both. A beautiful thing. A fleeting thing. That moment just before the sugar-laced cocoa melts on your tongue. It’s the pause—the anticipation—that holds all the pleasure. To sit with it, to savor it, is the real gift. Not in seeking to resolve it, but in simply letting it be.

I watch the reflection of light flicker around the insides of empty glasses, the soft glow chasing itself in circles. My legs, restless at first, begin to settle, leaning into the strange comfort of discomfort. I find solace in the tension, in the silence of it all.

Because here, for once, I know exactly what I want.

Poets’ Corner

For the next month in Poets’ Corner, we’re showcasing writers from Oxford’s Undergraduate Creative Writing program.

This week’s prompt is tension

tension is best when it explodes

perhaps it is a spring packed tight,
perhaps it is a secret, and you might

let it slip from the
tip of your tongue
​​ let it leap from the
​​​ edge of your lips.

​​​ let it—

​​​ COMBUST

like a firework shouting over the earth!
like an ancient mine bursting from the dirt!

it may hurt…
​ the secret you reveal, and
​​ the coiled spring you finally

​​​…release…

it is a leap.
will you leap?

(will you LEAP?)

-Alexis

Work

I’ll have new physical work to share with you next week. If you’d like to be the first to see what’s emerged from the past few weeks of research - or if you’re curious about what’s still available after the Christmas rush - click here

Final words

Tension is a paradox—a pull that unsettles and grounds us all at once. It’s the hum of the unknown, the ache of anticipation, and the thrill of possibility folded together. In the moment, it can feel sharp, like it’s pulling at the edges of what you can handle. But tension also brings life into focus, heightening every detail, every sensation. It turns ordinary moments into something extraordinary.

There’s a beauty in it, a richness. It’s the rope that keeps you tethered, a reminder that something or someone is connected to you. It’s also the spark of movement, the stretch that reminds you you’re alive. It’s the stillness before the leap, the weight of a breath held before it releases, the ache of knowing that something is about to unfold but not quite yet.

In those fleeting moments, there’s a clarity that can’t be found elsewhere. It’s not in the resolution, not in what’s waiting at the end, but in the tension itself. In the flicker of light against the glass, the warmth pooling under restless feet, the electric hum of anticipation—it’s there, holding you. Not demanding answers, just giving you the space to feel.

And maybe that’s where the beauty lies. In being able to rest in the pull, to see the questions as part of the experience. The what ifs and what nows that make life vivid. Because tension, when you let it linger, doesn’t take from you. It offers a glimpse of what truly matters, sharp and clear against the blur of everything else.

I love you loads

R