You’re a cold winter landscape and I just jacked a parka
from an Eskimo. What I mean is, you taste better than you
did yesterday. I taste you rhythmically: my tongue keeps the beat
of my finger as it taps against your hip. I taste you quietly,
as if my parents were still sleeping in the other room,
as if your fingers were finding the elastic waistband
of my boxers for the first time. Our bed is stacked
with pillows and cat hair, and now our bodies stick together
like Tupperware lids. We hold hands while walking through IKEA,
furnishing the nursery of our house we bought on Monopoly.
This means we love each other. On TV, a chef puts an entire pear
on top of a slice of Brie that sits on top of a hamburger.
This is all wedged between a pretzel roll. I’ve never had a pretzel roll,but you promise me it’s tops. Not as tops as your hips I say.
If we were a bad sitcom, millions of people would watch us rub
cheeks, wear matching pajamas to bed. They’ll like how you curl
your hair, slowly at first, but then you speed up when your arm
grows tired. People will talk about us around the water cooler,
during their children’s soccer practice, after making love
with the lights on. The critics will call us ‘Contrived, yet adorable’,
and ‘Something worth watching while flossing’.