Conversations before seven



This is the first conversation we have had today.

I blink,

And dig yellow goo from out of the corner

Of my eye.


Over the scum gathering on top of  my water glass,

              I watch you pull jeans over your boxers.

The white skin on the back of your legs Is puckering,

 pimply with early morning goose-bumps.


My bedroom skin is sticky with

the liquor of your skin.

                               You get too hot in the night.

I cloak myself in a crumpled shirt,

             pulling it out from the side of the bed. 

It is soft and cool against my breasts and

The underside of my arms.

I await Tea,

And toast,

and the quiet internal gurgles that fill our silences.


Our conversation is between sips,

And blows,

and crumbly brushing away

Of burnt off bits, festive, like buttery glitter

On our sheets.


I sit away from you, cold foot against

Cold wall. The rough material of

Your jeans looks brash,

As if it might bruise me,

Naked and flushed in this bare skin,

That itches against the crumbs caught

In the soft wet crease

Behind my knee.



You get up and spill tea on the bed.

Through the duvet it falls like morning rain.

Warm, like kisses,

Or the taste of you,

Still in my mouth.


One thought on “Conversations before seven

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