In tea shops your skin is like cinnamon
sprinkled over chai,
every separate part of you.
Your kisses are a leaving.
Rain pelts pedestrians,
the sky is falling.
At breakfast you crack an egg for a smile
and the yolky richness unfurls on the pink of your
rosebud tongue.
We pass old women hunched over,
their eyes are a starving.
******* bags rot,
we’ve always made waste.
In bed your eyes are a frozen lagoon
flecked with clouds of grey.
I wade you to the ocean.
You call me the bed bug, patient insect
as you hunt down pizza
and gather strepsils for my cold.
How far are we from the cave?
I roll in the duvet.