My mouth tastes like sand.
You snatch up the bed sheets as I crawl from beneath your thigh.
I slip into cashmere; you– a coat.
You’re shaving in the kitchen while I sprinkle shallots on the eggs.
Still weary, we walk.
Treading on the cobblestone, seeking coffee, we collapse.
Comfortable, we don’t give up anything.
“Nothing ever comes from an independent cause.”
Family, friends, twenty-four-hour jobs.
Caught within our gravities, we confess.
The young couple on the bench is watching.
You fortify my Americano with a kiss.
Then kindly, we disappear.
You, the inventor, in your docile quest of why.
And me, the writer, always wantonly in love.