As I cooked our lunch
before we were to part
you sat at the kitchen table
busy with cutting and sticking

just like a wet-afternoon child
waiting for her drink and biscuit.
Only it was Curried Cauliflower
and with those crispy rolls you like.

I stood in my apron behind
a pretence of minding the pan
rapt at the loveliness of your tilted head,
the intricate movements of your hands,

the concentrated purse of your lips
I so wanted to place against my own:
to draw you into the longest kiss,
the longest, deepest, barely imaginable kiss.