Tuesday, 24 October 2017


Joan Crawford said that -
"Love is a fire. But whether it is going to warm your hearth or burn down your house, you can never quite tell." and I don't know him that well.
But he takes me, spoonful by spoonful into his arms, his hands, 
and between his fingers 
they knead me, slowly
into butter.

I hate to admit it, but I am softening.
I feel his nudge, and his touch, it doesn't take very much 
just the pick on his thumb 
and his wrist has begun 
to strum me back into tune
But perhaps I've spoken too soon,

or maybe written, or sung 
his lips 
pushed on this
he oversteps into my wild side
and I freeze
and I clench
I turn silently still
Waiting for the moment 
that he gets his fill 
of me,

like butter.