I reached into the bread bag and pulled out two slices. You call that one sandwich. I cut it and call it two. Green and fluffy mould on the crust. Urrggh. Two fresh slices in the toaster (one sandwich, not two). I stared silently through the window at the brick wall outside, waiting, tasting the nectar thoughts in my nightscape. Out they popped, shocking me sane. Like when you giggle sometimes making me think of the boy you must have been. So there’s smoked salmon spread and cream cheese. Not your favourites. Asparagus (you like those) and smoked mussels (these you don’t). Mmmm. Sipped some coffee with the delicious morsels of fishy food you’d likely crinkle your nose at. The one that would probably look great adorned with a stud. Not surprising really. Your clothes wear you, I think. I’d want to wear you too. Like a new dress. Crisp and sweet smelling. Toast tastes good in the mornings. And afternoons. And late at night. Like you. Dried bread crumbs in bed though, more pain than pleasure. Not like your chest hairs scraping across my cheek when you pull me into your rubber heat. Buttered toast. Now that’s something else. Guess I’ll have to try that another day.
Maybe.
No more mouldy toast to spill my life.
Take a bite. And chew. Slowly.
paradisepicklesandpreserves 