I'm surprised you're still here -
I thought you wouldn't have even stayed for dinner.
But then you were always one
For the afters, a fan of any and all desserts,
No matter how tiny, or bitter.
I told you we didn’t have any family recipes, but
You marvel at my split skin,
Not cut, or bleeding
Just scarred. The aftereffects of growing -
thin, translucent roots
shooting across my veins,
cracks across the pale crust.
You traced them with your hands
and I shivered at your touch, again.
The stars were dim, and the window open
but it was okay. I had you, your warmth -
‘I'm not a fan of them -’
I said, staring up at the grey ceiling, the empty space,
Anything but your fierce, burning eyes.
‘I don't know why.’
You kept your finger lightly at the crux of my wrist, tasting my pulse -
It wasn’t a question, but it seems as if there was an answer
flitting around the warm air, anyway. I was
just too tired to catch it. ‘I am,’ you said,
lightly, in a quiet breath, as your fingers went walking again.
‘Why?’ You smiled at me, taking pleasure
in the action, in the flavour of the words sliding up your throat -
‘Loving you
is as easy as pie.’