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.
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