The beeping of a cement truck
can be heard outside our window

The sun peaks through the drapes;
boots covered in dirt dance
along the fevered pavement

You're in my arms, on your side;
your hair  is like fine layer of
mocha beans before my face

I catch a small whiff of it
before you turn around
and look me in the eyes

And it isn't long,
after I kiss you
and ask what you
would like to do today

before you interrupt
all movement
(outside and in)

with

'You smell like
old Chinese food
right now'.