This is the first conversation we have had today.
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 the quiet internal gurgles that fill our silences.
Our conversation is between sips,
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.