Sixty-nine: How Appropriate

Stacking bricks of anticipation,
we wait and we watch each
other through peepholes, eyeing
up the forbidden fruits of our
respective groins and respecting
pink promises plucked from
midnight conversations.

You’re an open book, you say,
for anyone who cares to read.
And I do.
I like the shape of your words
I’m turning you,
page by ginger page,
reluctant to infuse the colour
just in case
tomorrow I turn to find
blanks where the rest of the story should be.

You’re an open book, you say.
And I like that,
but I’ve been on the shelf for so long that
my pages are stiff, clinging to each other
beneath the glossy covers.

I know what I like and I go for it, you say.
As if you are an impatient lion,
too bored to stalk.

And then you have the gall to call me a cougar.

No, don’t stop.
That’s the point: don’t stop.
Sometimes you don’t need to blow
your desires in from the sky.
Sometimes, they’re just waiting,
watching you, waiting for you to
turn your back, so that they too may fall,
secure with the knowledge that you’ve
got their back, and, unflinching,
catch them.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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