Suicide Sky (SS 1)

teacups

You English are obsessed with your tea. Just as I am.

Why
Does
A
Simple,
Mundane
Event
Such
As
the
Making
And
Consumption
Of
Tea
Cause
Me
To
Think
Of
You?

I envisage you brewing tea for us in a rusty little pot over a hardy, old stove.

I imagine us in a cottage with fire, somewhere where we're on our own together. The rustic air at last allowing our oppression leave.

You smile with your clear, vivid eyes, eyes only for me.

You whisper secret words to me in that tenor that brings shivers rippling through my being.

You touch my feverish neck with your smooth hands, trembling slightly. My breath halts. Your sweet lips graze my cracked ones. Your beard scratches. I can't help but chuckle. You retreat to ask what the matter is. I smile widely, telling you to shave for I shan't let you near me with all of that hair to tickle me with. Amusement glitters your eyes, a teasing note passes through your lips: oh, you don't like tickling then?

I shake my head & turn to flee but you're quicker. You always were stronger than me. You grasp me around the waist & guffaw at my squeals of discomfort.

We laugh as you chase & tackle me about the house.

We are immaculate.

Oh love, why did we have to be born impossible?