I came here to pick up shells,
yet I’ve picked up a man.
He stares until I’m shy,
and laughs until I love.
Lust, it must be lust.
I cannot list a single thing
beyond his body,
that I cannot live without.
This could be the end of my resistance,
and the start of realisation.
It could easily be everything.
It could well be wishful thinking.
I walk away,
a channel to him
on top of my wrist’s Chanel,
simply saying “I hope you’ll call.”
He thinks he’s so old fashioned,
but those eyes are brand new.
I don’t want this to exist,
essential and engrossing.
It’s gross how caught up I am,
thinking like Juliet.
Poison propelled by blade,
with no priest to blame.
I’ve promised myself a passion free period of time,
nights of collecting sleep and shells,
and yet, if we never met again,
I’d raise the tide with my tears.
Sincerely, Jennifer x 
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