I don’t feel nice when I wake up in the morning next to himHe is too deeply in his sleep, and I too coldly out of mineI convince myself he doesn’t want to wake up and smell the coffeeThe smell of me and my nest.
Remember this, small bean, when you pine for him just from the sight of his scrape-shaved neckRemember this, darling bud, when you wait to see where he goes and how he acts when the evenings close and the bars shut upRemember these 12:30 thoughts my love, as he leaves your room and almost calls you Jess.
There’s red on my knee, like the dried trail of baked beans but it’s bright as a fire on my armI’m not crying, my face is dry, but my chest heaves and out comes a mewing sound.
Waiting for a buzz and a sting from my arm or from my little black phone on the floorThen in they comeI’m surrounded by softly padded trainers and genuine smilesI love these boys, and the way they dab my cuts and stroke my nails.
He lies with me, we are curled as two Cs, and the warmth makes me forget the painI will cry, so will he, but laid knee-to-knee we are fine until the alarm tone rings.