I’ve grown weary of wandering through my library gardens sewing stitches of you into my shelves of Plath and rows of Thomas; imparting prints of foot and finger.
No longer am I surprised when I find you smiling:- woven into: My McDaniel My Parker My Adamson- like old friends enjoying a burgundy at a Tuesday matinee.
I don’t want to patch my clothes from the inside anymore. Or trap you between Pound and Tranter for fear you may catch the wind…
When all I really want is to: absorb the nervousness from your unwashed skin, inhale the sticky warmth of your breathing and place your hands- in the small of my back in the pit of my crotch venomously around my neck and start again.