The groaning mists of her thighs

Embellish the air like honey gliding through the pockets of air left in bread

In the morning’s boulangeries of the fifteenth, we lay there, creased sheets doused in moonlit sweat, the febrile glow from fucking

Our hands collided like Venus and Jupiter while I suggested chocolate spread on a rustic baguette


I tip-toed across to Ségur for beer

Never coming back with the bread

You lay there indefinitely, wondering, crying, a familiar disappointment in your head

Our love is like that loaf, like that pan, like that baguette

Something soft, something warm, something universal – something neither of us can ever forget

Posted in Uncategorized

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s