Just the right amount of squeeze 

at my hip

of a lemon 

on the pasta we craft for each other

of the sponge he knows I don’t like to touch when wet.

A tongue, a croissant, a bottom smack, 

exactly when we wanted one

A well-timed tease, balletically treading that tightrope line 

from this now, to the next, to the next to the next please

Moments studded above our ...

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my partner says

I can’t write anymore poetry.

until I take out the bins

complete that assignment 

(for which I’m paying thousands for the privilege)

and preferably have a shower

not out loud 

but I hear it in his sighs

and the way he closes the cupboard doors

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