Comfort food
So much of you is comfort
your ebony curls,
your copper skin,
your hooded eyes
with sleep
beckoning me
awake
for a full course meal
at three in the morning.
As I caress the back of your hands
with a quiet reckoning
a recklessness
that allows for
a touch,
so brief
that it can echo
through the gleam of an ivory mooncake.
Yet so, pronounced –
so vivid, beneath the moonless sky
that the powdered dark
cannot puff out the glint
of the lit cigarette.
so much of you is comfort
that our syllables dandle amid
your hushed gaze
recoil into
the promise of wordlessness
and bemuse the boiling broth.
and of course, the curve of your
flabs is the routine
of a curdled
nourishment
hidden in your
dependency.
Insisting
I cook dinner for three
every night,
for comforts sake,
despite our double tenancy.
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