You continue to drink my tea
As if this day is not really happening.
The olives in the fridge look at me
Tempestuously red. I pretend to yawn.
I consider a Max Jacob poem and
You sit on top of me, chewing.
Outside the sky is suspicious
And damp and wants to be smaller.
I pin to your back a paper
Fish, its ink gills flit in the breeze.
Your flesh is out of the question
so, twirling the pencil you left behind
until your bite aligns with mine,
I lick your fingerprints,
grind yellow paint between my teeth.