Flowers
Plucked so fresh I can
Taste their flesh
On the tip of my tongue.

There's a ***** amongst them;
I protect my fingers.

Pulled out of water and
Wrapped in newspaper,
Which wets the waistband of my jeans
As I carry them.

I waltz up to your window
And knock,
Knowing you'll love these
Lovely plants

portraits kissing in moonlight
you have our stares.
mouth open over unfinished meals
there's passion in pasta,
pleasure in pastry

Tongue down throat
she stands up to kiss

smirks go between us
and we giggle at their lust.

These dates becoming almost daily and still not with you.
you're continents away
and I'm not content without you

I wish it could be us.
I want that passionate pasta
with hands behind my waist as I stir
stodgy rice,

that lean over my shoulder,
tender as you watch me
make a mess of a meal but
always leave a clean kitchen.

recall the
over salting of a starch,
the almost poisoning of your father

recall my confidence in
"Yes more salt"
"No, not enough”.

I eat nothing but *** noodle stew
With extra defrosted veg.
We were all those fragrances
with somewhat sliced fingers
but always
fingers through fingers.