You are the perfect scoop
of chocolate ice cream,
a sphere
broken only by a spoon
softly slicing a part of you
to my softly parted lips,
a lifetime on my hips
sacrificed to your succulence.
You are the moment
milk meets coffee,
melting my bitter taste
for every miracle day
you are still mine in the morning.
You taste like cinnamon buns,
contours of currants
fresh from the oven,
one hundred and seventy Celsius
and clothed in caramelised sugar,
I couldn’t wait for you to cool.
You are the hypnotic grip
of the Demon Headmaster
when I haven’t done my homework,
holding me back after class
until the heat between these pages
could burn a hole to Hell.
One two three, one two three,
if love is to dance
then our drug is the waltz,
undressed till I’m dizzy,
on a bed of diamonds
we become the disassembled finale.