Your crooked smile the flower behind
Dumbo ears reflections of light
onto the boldness of your distinctive
gargantuan head, baby looks

one wouldn’t expect, from an imposing
gentle giant like yourself.

Your invitation to stay when everyone
leaves, closing hour, tipsy people ******
into night streets as you turn the key
lock the door behind them. Pub shut.

Bringing bamboo sofas together
improvised imperial king-size beds,
innocent projection In The Mood
For Love on white sheets pined

to the wall, soundtrack to your echoing
heartbeat as I approach, lay my head
on your chest teasing fingers twirling
the soft curly hair surrounding

*******, pretending to follow the plot
suffocating the sound of my deepening
breaths, when resistance loses purpose
and I submit to your hypnotic lips,

hands scoping each other’s worlds
as we unveil slithering tips on soft skins,
yours and mine akin, though you are strong
and I am delicate, movement symbiosis

orchestrated by Umebayashi, a two-piece
jigsaw made of flesh, meticulously moulded
to fit, once forever no space left between
as we fill the voids with steamy exhales

overwhelmed by your power I struggle
to prevent, reason commanding vocal chords
to emit the sound demanding cease, ‘Stop’,
whilst my kernel essentially pleads not to,

an internal duel I refuse to attend, biting
my lip holding you tight protracting time
not to end as I fall, madly into you
and mistakenly confuse your body with mine,

unable to define where you finish
and I begin.

Although you died since,
on occasions I recall.