The shell hung together cracked, but wouldn’t separate,
like telephone box doors, shattered
but still clinging together
in some strange façade,
a sparkling spiderweb of cellophane.
I had to bash it off the side three times,
until the yolk and white dropped into the bowl,
catching fragments in my fingers.
The first one broke the first time.
Next the milk came creating a strange cloud that wouldn’t mix,
cloudbubbling with the tawny infusion of Madagascan vanilla.
“It’s bitter” the radio said, “Vanilla.”
I dripped maple syrup down my top and forgot
So now it’s on my hands and in my hair.
Don’t see how sticky things are sexy:
Eating whipped cream off stomachs á la Eurotrash.
I guess it’s an excuse to shower.
Who doesn’t love a shower?
To be caressed by a thousand warm raindrops at once.
I like raspberries for their texture,
The little pips and pink blood running through a the web of a pancake,
like some grotesque beast stuck just under the ice.
But if I had to choose, it would be apples every time.
I gag on the skin of oranges and the smell
And mushy green sliminess of bananas.
I like a bit of bite.
Love through touch, sound and smell
He said they made his hair fall out.
Maybe it was a legacy of the cancer?
Maybe it’s the fact that he’s forty?
He’d climb in bed beside me and spoon
and I’d try to smile while being
enveloped in the smell of spicy
fried onions and glued together
with sweat that turned his red shirt white.
His skin was baby soft and he purred like a kitten,
when I ran my fingers down his side.
I look at the flowers struggling to breathe in the vase.
I cut them too short so I had to wedge them in,
So they’re kept from drowning solely by the
bobbing heads of their friends;
Ker-plunk with red samurai roses,
They look charred and frayed but I appreciated the gesture.
Only hours earlier, I was gasping for air,
when I couldn’t predict the future
or read your mind.
I hadn’t cried so much since breaking up with Him
Climbing up those lopsided stairs
Cracks in the plastered walls
As if an earthquake had happened on that particular spot.
I waited until the morning. Selfishly?
The floor in the room was uneven,
walls paper thin, I could hear the sobs
And put my head under the pillow like a child.
“Well that’s life and happiness done for me then” He said.
I hated Him and hated myself for my lack of sympathy.
“Rebound” a friend said, but I am no boomerang.
I tried to brush out the matts,
the curly white clumps,
In your Tudor ruff.
You didn’t like that.
I ended up shearing half your whiskers off.
You didn’t like that either.
Now your face is lopsided and you won’t stay on the bed,
when I pick up the comb.
Fair enough really.
You probably bang into things in the dark now.
Must be embarrassing.
I am sorry.