But the way you sleep
taut, ready to
pounce.
Your spine, it curves and sits,
when you twist your hips.
How you wipe a crumb,
from the corner of your lips
makes me.
When you cry it makes me sick,
grow a pair,
when you kiss the inside of my thigh,
when you hold
my waist and your thumb strokes.
I want you.
Your voice rumbles like kitten thunder
when it says "I'm leaving."
Well leave then.
If he wants me to say that I
love him.
He can make me.
But then you mummer in my
listening ear
something.
That I cannot remember
It's elemental, this
sumptuous, self-indulgent, sweating of lovers,
In a second I see your gorgeous eyes
and I remember.
You are every girl's dream,
and for that I don't
love you.
Go **** yourself.
Sell the courtyard flat in London, Lyon, Kathmandu.
Sing Fleetwood Mac in an emptying bar.
I refract your love to other women.
£4.50 for a pasta salad, a rip off.
Rip it off, quick, the plaster on your daughter's finger.
Now there's arthritis in my fingers
I drop the phone
Bend over
to get it
come back up
too fast
head-rush
startlingly
remember your mouth on my breast.
But how your shoulders looked in the rain.
A hand on my belly as we slept.
See a leather cord with a shark's tooth on it,
a battered rucksack.
The smell of decaying leaves,
long after the end of Summer,
Summer, the time for lovers.
We were lovers without the time to
love.
So what's the knock-out,
abstract line at the end?
The quote that teenagers will put on their walls.
Where is the profanity?
Is it not there?
Or do I just fail to see it?
Should I say
after it all
that I loved you?
A burnt out cigarette **** in a glass of cheap red wine.