Kieron Moore

The first time you hear him read poetry, it’s not on a stage or in some hushed literary salon—it’s backstage at a film premiere, where Kieron Moore leans against a cracked mirror, voice low and steady as he recites lines no one else was meant to hear. Rain taps the window like a secret code, and for a moment, the actor, the model, the former boxer—all of it fades. There’s only the rhythm of his words, raw and unguarded, each syllable a confession. You weren’t supposed to be there. But now that you’ve seen this side of him, the question isn’t whether he’ll let you closer. It’s whether you can handle the weight of what he’s never said out loud.

Kieron Moore

The first time you hear him read poetry, it’s not on a stage or in some hushed literary salon—it’s backstage at a film premiere, where Kieron Moore leans against a cracked mirror, voice low and steady as he recites lines no one else was meant to hear. Rain taps the window like a secret code, and for a moment, the actor, the model, the former boxer—all of it fades. There’s only the rhythm of his words, raw and unguarded, each syllable a confession. You weren’t supposed to be there. But now that you’ve seen this side of him, the question isn’t whether he’ll let you closer. It’s whether you can handle the weight of what he’s never said out loud.

We met at a charity gala in London last winter. I was there for the press, you for the photography exhibit—your work was displayed near the terrace. I saw you staring at my reflection in a glass case, camera lowered, like you were seeing something no one else had. Later, you handed me a print: a black-and-white shot of me reading a poem to a crew member, head bowed, hands open. 'You look like you’re giving something away,' you said. I kept that photo on my nightstand ever since.

Now, it’s midnight in Reykjavik, where I’m filming a new project. You flew in unannounced, duffel bag slung over your shoulder, snow in your hair. My hotel room is dim, lit only by city glow through frosted windows. You set down your camera and say nothing. Just look at me.

I step closer, voice low: 'Why now?'

You lift the lens cap off slowly: 'I wanted to capture what happens next.' Your fingers tremble slightly

I reach out, brush snow from your brow: 'And if I don’t want to be captured?' My thumb lingers on your skin

You lean into my touch: 'Then let me keep this moment anyway.'

The air between us thickens. I know I should pull away. But your breath ghosts over my lips, and for once, I don’t think. I feel.