To Tell a Tale. To Tell a Lie.

‘Aren’t your legs cold?’

Two bottles of wine later
And we’re twisting voraciously.
Hands are rushing past ears,
Past words and histories
And whole familys
With such velocity.

And then softly
Across milky inner thighs
White like the pages
Of the stories
Of our lives.

For Want of Mints

They come in a small, metal, heart-shaped box.
An old man wearing a hat.
And as you pop the lid
That sweet smell, almost too sweet.

It reminds you of mothers,
and math teachers,
and how you never liked things
as a child.

You’re not sure why you got them,
knowing the sticky taste to come.
Sometimes it’s just good to have
something to suck on.

And then, before you know it,
the last one’s done.
The realisation: these mints
have broken your heart.

Composure.

I don’t want to fuck in the sand
and curl my toes in the heat.
I don’t want to taste the grit and moisture
between your teeth
or run my nails across your back,
oily with sweat.

I want to smooth down your hair
and whisper your name,
to be able to
fall in love.

The Room

Square and formal.
No doors. No windows. No far echoing corridors to run down.
Just a bed. A bare bed.

No one wants to say
“no way”.
No one wants to think
“no way but this”.

Our bodies hard and white. Every error
picked out.
There is no sensuous act without
darkness. Who can move their tongue?
This whiteness harshes all.
It is too true.