I.

You scribble your name,
   spaghetti letters
on my arm
   in sky-blue ink
so when my eyes open
   I’ll be able to remember
when you asked
   if you could
write your name
   on my arm.

II.

Where did you come from?
The waves
must have done something,
the water
glistens on your legs
like a hundred
million silver sequins,
your hair
melted toffee squiggles
oozing
between shoulders.

III.

The longer I stay,
the more the empty pit
   he can’t ignore
   will froth with pink bubbles,
gurgle as a kitchen sink
gulping soapy water,
   spill over in a torrent
   of sugary sentences
but it’s OK;
I ought to tell him
   I like the electric rush.