There’s a clumsiness
to the way I unbutton my shirt,
hoist it over my head
and let it snuffle to the floor.

I stand there, *******
and unkempt armpit hair on display
but you’ve already almost
totally disrobed,

the light from outside
licking your spine,
dribbling down a leg
like melted sunflower petals.

We catch each other’s eyes,
except you don’t catch eyes,
you see the other person
looking at you
and you know what’s next,

the standing ****,
dry skin and bellybuttons
viewed only by a fortunate few,
a bunch of names
like grapes squashed
into bed sheets
we won’t touch again.

I think this is supposed to be sexier,
my underwear flinging off,
boxer shorts champagne cork
towards the window,
your bra sunny side up
by the foot of the door.

Rather I watch you
peer at the skin I’m in
waiting for a shrill buzzer sound,
a number out of ten
and a spatter of applause
from a conjured-up crowd.

I think you look glorious.
I go to say this but my brain feels
as though it’s been whisked.
You walk over, slink your hands
towards my face,
put an icicle finger to my lips.
I’ve no idea what I’m doing
but you’ll show me the way.