Love

That first morning,
you wore shorts
and came to my bed

with sausages
and bread, things
we could not do without.

Ours is a love
that doesn’t need
to be done,

doesn’t care
to be alone,
with days like separation,

like the dots of evening
unfazed by time,
by ardour

of a kind that moves
in and out of us
unlike diligence

but like passion
unsigned,
not unproven.

Advertisements


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s