She didn’t cook she warned me,
I mustn’t expect too much.
She needn’t have worried
I watched, and waited.
Listened to her nervous chatter,
Mesmerized by her pale loveliness.
We sat on her sofa.
She kissed me, then said she shouldn’t.
Too late . . . the kissing had commenced.
In truth, we couldn’t stop.
So we kissed and kissed,
And what kisses, they were.
Long and languid, in bed
Covered by dogs and duvets.
A curtain of cherry blossom at the window.
Fierce, in shop doorways
In dark deserted Soho streets.
Waylaid by desire, on the way home.
Snatched, between courses.
Of dinner, served to oblivious friends,
Amidst dirty dishes and bubbling pans.
Aflame, on the fire escape
In the two, too short intervals,
Of “Tristan und Isolde”.
A kaleidoscope of kisses,
Wherever, whenever we wanted
Until, satiated, we stopped.