Breakfast at Nine
Saliva dominates,
Her salt washed skin brushes the beads of bubbles
Glistening between my hairs,
She moans — the type of climactic heat
Which scalds.
To watch her?
To be inside her,
To feel the interiority of her flesh
Blistering against mine.
You’re so supple, so honest, so alone,
That when you look at me,
Our eyes lock and you feel my pain,
Glorious.
Breakfast at nine.
If I saw her with the ginger man I’d remember:
Mothers know best,
An early nest of fuelled philosophies.
She told me when I lay dormant in my stained sheets
Unwashed because I lay screaming the moment
Someone threatened to take the cold lingering of her scent
On the square of duvet next to me.
“She’ll meet a man one day.”
Curly cascading keratin winking at her
Through coffee shop windows.
Seductively she will pause at the counter,
Sauntering aimlessly trying to find the sugar
Swaying hips and loosely hung arms,
Which I know have the capacity to cling —
To rip and tear and scrape into flesh when the emotion is right.
She waits.
Examining the brown and white sachets
With excruciating detail.
Pupils become cylinders of microscopic anatomy
As she tries to lift her right cheek,
Revealing the nape of her neck,
Tendons poke out like tall buildings with have been splintered
By an architect’s pencil,
The perfect angle to seduce,
To grin and fuck,
To make him lift his eyes for a brief moment and then find them
Glued.
A Venus fly trap of oestrogen
Flowering at his touch,
His caress,
Which I stare at.
Feeling where he touches her on my skin,
A sick burning which scorches my pores
So they shrivel and wilt,
Withering under his testosterone,
Ginger hair lightly bouncing
As her arms surround him
Slightly too hard.