beginnings.

it is the time of night

you choose to call morning.

i am memorising your mouth

and the slip of your voice,

thinking of another way

to fall in love with you.

i have called you beautiful

more than i have kissed you,

and your tongue is so familiar.

even when we are alone

in my car, and it's dark out,

you laugh without being afraid.

the shape of your eyes, the colour,

keeps me awake at four a.m.,

when i am waiting for you

to come home. come to bed —

the city is sleeping, and you are

some kind of heat beyond warmth.

now it is my teeth and your thighs,

your voice slipping through

the silence, turning this temple

into a white mausoleum;

and i am taking out a mortgage,

making home out of horror,

making romance

out of this sacrilege.