You are my peanut butter,
I want you everyday,
Breakfast, lunch,
Snacks and dinner,
You go perfectly with my jelly.

Place silhouette pieces or outlines of my heart in thirty or more envelopes.
Paste each one with a new soft paintbrush which clean cream bristles. Push them into torn up fragments of clean new watercolour paper. The sharp edges feel through onto the wooden table leaving mistaken, accidental grooves. Glimmers of sawdust are ****** up into the pockets of your lungs, where they contaminated and will permanently sit.
It was a small heart, the colour of grey sky reflected on seas and carried in bloated raindrops. The texture of diamond. Carved up as easily as wax by a blunt butter knife.
The envelopes are neatly labelled with white tailors chalk powders.

I love the quick ***** of china cutlery when I close the plastic dishwasher

And the comforting sizzle
of the butter, which sun bursts
in the pan, as you are frying our dinner.

I love the way you say 'Nah'
and the way
my heart's pace 
Increases at your sight.

I love the way the steamy light
makes shapes and shadows
on your face
as we lie together on grass.

I love the slam
of the front door after a rain day
and the lock
of our eyes
in the hall way.

I love mundane high croak 
of the curtains
when I peal
them back as if I am 
opening my eyes 
for the first time. 

Opening to see you;
China cutlery, 
butter,
my steamy light, 
and rain.

I've always wanted
To write a poem about it
Because, just because.
I don't know why, but I guess
I really like it.

My body steeps in this hot sarcophagus,
Coated in fake butter topping.

I watch trollops quaffing hoppy-scotch,
Flipping wristwatches for moves to jump rope two-and-two.

Like when I was 10, and I saw this ***** white trash can of a man,
Fly out of a grocery store with a 40oz like he was Peter Pan.

But I knew deep down, in my swashbuckling soul of souls,
That Peter Pan got Wendy by being a gentleman.

So this fever, that has my mobile phone not shaking in my pocket,
I keep staring at every five seconds for you to call.

Is just another moment in my life to cherish, because if we should be married, And I want to talk. I'll just need to walk down the hall.

I want to lay in my bed
Next to you
At seven in the morning.

"Crepes?"
"Crepes." You say.

I get up
and start the crepe maker

I put out the Nutella
And cut bananas
And pull out the jar of lingonberries that
I love
Even though nobody knows
What lingonberries are.

You ask for peanut butter
And we both know I'm allergic.
But I have a jar
Because I know that
You love it.