You come to me:
Older, uglier, dishevelled and droll.
You say you still have the moves
to make me swoon, baby,
that you still have the cheeky grin
to make heads spin, baby.
I look at your face:
bloated, tired, blue.
You need this now
more than I ever needed you.
I think back
to that sparse room
with pictures torn down too soon
and I think of
books and calenders in sacks
and all those things your words had lacked.
I smile at you,
you give me that soft, sexy grin:
A best of’s on the cards, baby,
where shall we begin?