O! The way you glisten
in the glint of light
with oil and salt.
It does make my mouth water,
my heart beat faster,
my stomach churn in wanting.
For your beauty does know no match,
the way you compliment my palate is divine.
O! Fried potatoes,
your salty delicate flavour undoes me
in a way that no other can,
I crave you more deeply
than any other.
For without you I am not complete,
you are my other half.
Wednesday, 26 March 2014
Thursday, 13 March 2014
Confusion
Empty. Open. Alone.
These are the thoughts that enter DJ's mind when she thinks of his visit. She is left with more questions than she'd had beforehand. Things feel more complicated now, but as to why, she is uncertain. DJ lifts her cup of tea and burns her top lip. She glares at the cloudy liquid in the cup and blows warm air across its surface. She puts the cup down and stands. She walks into her bathroom, looks at the sink, the floor, the toilet. She leaves. She can still smell him on her skin. Strong and bold, the scent of his work lingers though she's since changed her clothes. DJ longs to hold him, to feel completed by his arms, but she isn't sure that hope is real; doesn't know that it could happen. She walks into the kitchen, sees what is left of their dinner still on the counter, turns and walks back to her original seat at the table. Taking her phone into her hands, DJ calls him. Screaming, she tells him to make up his mind. She hangs up. Seconds later, she dials again. Voicemail. "I'm sorry. I'm crazy. I'm sorry." She hangs up. Shaking, DJ stands again, picks up her book from the table by the door, moves into the bedroom. In bed, DJ tries to read but finds she cannot. She begins to cry. She doesn't understand why yet, but she will.
These are the thoughts that enter DJ's mind when she thinks of his visit. She is left with more questions than she'd had beforehand. Things feel more complicated now, but as to why, she is uncertain. DJ lifts her cup of tea and burns her top lip. She glares at the cloudy liquid in the cup and blows warm air across its surface. She puts the cup down and stands. She walks into her bathroom, looks at the sink, the floor, the toilet. She leaves. She can still smell him on her skin. Strong and bold, the scent of his work lingers though she's since changed her clothes. DJ longs to hold him, to feel completed by his arms, but she isn't sure that hope is real; doesn't know that it could happen. She walks into the kitchen, sees what is left of their dinner still on the counter, turns and walks back to her original seat at the table. Taking her phone into her hands, DJ calls him. Screaming, she tells him to make up his mind. She hangs up. Seconds later, she dials again. Voicemail. "I'm sorry. I'm crazy. I'm sorry." She hangs up. Shaking, DJ stands again, picks up her book from the table by the door, moves into the bedroom. In bed, DJ tries to read but finds she cannot. She begins to cry. She doesn't understand why yet, but she will.
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