This fingered beam of light pours soft & electric –
an endless stream through the keyhole of our door.
We caress & kiss softly, almost silent,
in this cosy corner of the coming dawn.
We writhe until we cannot breathe
in this scruffy bed, beneath
Egyptian cotton sheets, sleep-thin & weak
with hunger. The henna from your hair stains
This feathered pillow & still
this makes me grin. I am sick
with happiness! Swollen,
throated, swallowed, squeezed.
Our hearts thrum behind our ribs.
The light, not quite as soft as your lips;
indeed, less so, far less so, enters,
limitless, & illuminates our skins.
You say that you are going
to push some water around the bath
(this phrase never fails to draw delight)
& I muffle my laugh as you leave,
turning off the landing light. I hear
the taps turning, the rush of water
& the black cat speaking in the hall.
The walls, I notice all at once, are bare
but for the clothes that you have sewn
all summer long. Yes, bare, but,
painted palace; red & blue.
The curtain cups the breeze
& now I hear
the tiny radio
voices, like whispered kisses,
in my ears.
nickreeves 