I pull the sweater further down my thighs.
Fabric bunched in my fist keeps the hem tight,

Stops it gaping as I lean, cold feet pressed to his shins,
inhaling steam from thick-as-mud coffee.

Would like to rearrange myself ‘round the warmth of him-
tangle my fingers in his hair.

Clamber into a linseed oil and white spirit scented nest.

But now’s not the time.
Distance is key.

I drink coffee, mind my hem ‘til he’s ready to draw.


muse