Bad Habits

A poem in-between the chaos.

Innocence has teeth, quiet, lovely teeth. Found at the birth of Autumn’s rosy, enflamed daybreak. Between cool sheets and coffee breath on quiet mouths and loud bodies. I breathe confessionals after caffeine and a kiss. A sunrise and an afterthought, with cool lingering spit. We are one of each other’s habits, you and me. relentless, useless intimacy when I’ve had too much to drink.

I do not decline, for the late hours turn me inside out, flesh on backwards, I forget how much it hurts. I’m a lover, tender like a bruise, a sucker for touch, like when you held my hand and wished for dainty fingers. I lace mine through yours, much larger than mine, a hiding place for raw skin.Your glasses gently tap my nose when your lips meet mine, and your heart thrums in my ear.

When I woke up, I hardly believed in us, crawled into the trap willingly for breadcrumbs of bliss. A ginger fire that towers over me, a cyclical chapter, small talk and groggy eyed, half regretful and a little bit proud. You show me a list of your current favoured music, songs I’ve loved forever, only just known to you. “She could have been a poet, or she could have been a fool” The Smiths play, the song you say sounds like me. More insult than compliment, but I’m not keeping score-

And now our clothes are off again, and that welcomed ache shuts me up. You numb me, pour on the charm. Daughter of sorrow and son of deception.

We talk of religion and politics while you make another cup of coffee. Bench top loving, hands between my thighs before the kettle boils. Your pointer finger slides your glasses back to the bridge of your nose, then carefully slip me off the kitchen counter. Cold and sweaty, we carry our mugs back to bed, treading over last night’s clothes, a gentle horror of poor judgement, we always say, never again for every again we break. Up right with a cigarette in one hand and porcelain in the other, we take turns blowing smoke up into the ceiling, a slow eaten mess.

Sour, bitter scents lingering with ephemeral make-believe, the act almost up. Our phones ring, I don’t dare answer, either do you, because here we can pretend, force this paring into existence.

But it’s Saturday morning, the sun is getting higher, the illusion is almost dust, and I know you won’t stay. So, I watch you lace your shoes, stroking your curls, and straddle into your arms for one last kiss. The door hinges creak, and I wave goodbye in nothing but a tee-shirt and underwear, a vulnerable mess. You don’t look back.

We don’t stand a chance. Do we?