Jun 2014
Scientists estimate that you will fall in love seven times before you get married.
That 50% of these marriages will end in divorce.
That lesbians get their sexuality from their fathers inability to maintain a platonic relationship with a woman, pram pushing into bedrooms whilst our mothers clean with wine stained pinafores and nicotine laced lips.
So when I sip seduction from your navel, when I unwrap you like the present at Christmas I never got, untieing the ribbon as I undo your jeans, just know, the only I do I will say is when you ask me if I think you look pretty.
I am chasing something that cannot be caught, something that has an expiry date before I can even co-create this thing called love.
So forgive me if the only aisle I will see you up is the biscuit aisle, pulling the fabric of my non-wedding dress around my slipping tights,
forgive me if I trade in the sweat on your neck for the salt side of tequila as sometimes I like to use the wool from over my eyes to knit me telescope so I can look at the stars between your thighs, but no one ever tells you that when you wish upon a star, that star has surely died.
Because I want to fall in and out of love 7 times.
Correction: I want to fall in and out of love with you 7 times.
I want to press you, not in a book, but against me. Imprint the lines of your finger tips on my ******* like maps of Alantis because I want to go places with you I never knew existed.
I want your nails engraved on my back like constellations of stars so I can always find my way back to now. To then.
The present. The past. That very moment where Greenwich meantime got it wrong.
Those seconds were longer than any before, and my life has been full of seconds. Second best. Second chances. Second love. The third the forth, the fifth the sixth but the 7th, the 7th time you tell me is no longer reserved for you.
You tell me the 7th time is for me to fall inexplicably, uncontrollably in love with myself.
So when I walk you up a different kind of aisle I can do it with you by my side.
That 50% of these marriages will end in divorce.
That lesbians get their sexuality from their fathers inability to maintain a platonic relationship with a woman, pram pushing into bedrooms whilst our mothers clean with wine stained pinafores and nicotine laced lips.
So when I sip seduction from your navel, when I unwrap you like the present at Christmas I never got, untieing the ribbon as I undo your jeans, just know, the only I do I will say is when you ask me if I think you look pretty.
I am chasing something that cannot be caught, something that has an expiry date before I can even co-create this thing called love.
So forgive me if the only aisle I will see you up is the biscuit aisle, pulling the fabric of my non-wedding dress around my slipping tights,
forgive me if I trade in the sweat on your neck for the salt side of tequila as sometimes I like to use the wool from over my eyes to knit me telescope so I can look at the stars between your thighs, but no one ever tells you that when you wish upon a star, that star has surely died.
Because I want to fall in and out of love 7 times.
Correction: I want to fall in and out of love with you 7 times.
I want to press you, not in a book, but against me. Imprint the lines of your finger tips on my ******* like maps of Alantis because I want to go places with you I never knew existed.
I want your nails engraved on my back like constellations of stars so I can always find my way back to now. To then.
The present. The past. That very moment where Greenwich meantime got it wrong.
Those seconds were longer than any before, and my life has been full of seconds. Second best. Second chances. Second love. The third the forth, the fifth the sixth but the 7th, the 7th time you tell me is no longer reserved for you.
You tell me the 7th time is for me to fall inexplicably, uncontrollably in love with myself.
So when I walk you up a different kind of aisle I can do it with you by my side.
