You've already left.

537 miles North of me, of us.

I'll ruffle up to join you in four (agonising) weeks 

but to my unconcerned shame, 

I'm too sad to sleep in that bed without you, too ungoverned.

Nostalgia, even the warm kind, is too much feeling for me.

Something about it has always made my lipids curdle 

and an unpleasant tickle cloud in my brain.

The street ou...

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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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