I’ve got more numbers than usual to make this week. There’s been a backlog because I’m in love. This morning I want to go for a jog. It helps clear my head when I’m short on time. But you walk in just as I’m getting into my running shorts. I don’t realise you have your own key. I don’t realise you can do that with your tongue. What’s the harm in going one more day without exercise? I decide to take the day off work as well. The numbers can wait.
I love you, even with your smoker’s cough. Even though, when you wake, you greet your bronchial deposits before you greet me. That’s okay, because you have the most perfect smiling eyes. And you lie like royalty on my morning bedspread, the dusty light across your useless legs. And after you’ve finished your first cigarette, you kiss me, urgently and desperately. These could be your last breaths, after all.
1 comment:
Yes. This is indeed about numbers. Also it is kind of nerve.com material really...
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