It’s a quiet Sunday morning. The sun plunges in through the window, painting glow worms on your back. Shadows shift with your body, which jerks as you beat eggs. My eyes walk the teeth-marked train tracks trailing from the nape of your neck to your right shoulder.

You place the bowl on the counter to find a spatula. The instrument glistens in your hand reflecting blue-orange fire. Overwhelmed
by a hunger I can no longer withstand, I dismount the stool.

The chair squeaks as it glides over the floor and you turn to face me.
“Stay there,” you say, radiating a savagely intriguing warmth.

I disobey.

Inching closer, I drink you in with wide eyes and slightly parted lips. You are all shaggy-haired and golden skin. I’m before you, tip-toe balancing, reaching, straining my calves to meet your lips. You are my home, towering over me, smiling with the corners of your lips up.

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