Sweet, crispy history. We rub heads together, yours bristles against the heat of my cheeks.
We've been buzzing round searching for complete defeat.
I've been writing poems for no one for entire months now.
In bed, together again, I'm concious of how my body looks to you. Sitting behind me, does my back look strange? Do the shadows fall where they should? Do you remember how my hair knots before the day ends?
Tongue to tongue, intertwined like best friends, your taste still slips off and sticks to mine, distinct.
The TV's on, I play wife.
But this time I wont talk about things like that. I'll focus on the rough patches of skin and the hardness your voice can have while practiced.
We hold hand and touch feet,
our lips a second thought.
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