She’s sat there with her hair waving towards the grit between the kitchen tiles.
Her £15 manicure tapping against the marbled worktop.
She says she sees UFOs in the marbled pattern and watches him speak; with passion; about the flat earth.
What she really sees is the faces of ghouls that visit her dreams.
She is his.
She has dirt under her nails and they both know it,
and she wants to not care and she is his.
The grey is starting to fall beside her mouth and she wants to not care. But she is his.
As he speaks about making her the best breakfast ever
The green for her red blemishes has failed to blend into her blush.
There is nothing in the fridge,
and he wants to care but she is his.
The morning puffiness beneath her eyes has grown because he loves it and she is his.
She has tried sleeping less so it can look – puffier – she has tried sleeping more so it can look – puffier – she has tried to sleep restlessly so it can look – puffier.
Her winning result is: restless. Because he looks at her and she is his.
And he will see me sat there and he will love me.