The Cake is Plum and Almond Hannah Lowe
Oh the way you eat.
Come home.
We can’t kiss here. I’d like to roll you on the patchwork of my happy bed. Come home. I’m clammy-skinned below my clothes, I’m achy in the bone.
Come home.
Birds are nesting in my flower pots, my dreams. Who will save me? Come home. We’ll tangle on the cushions, slant of summer light across a shoulder, thigh, a knee. Come home with me, help shake this fever.
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