Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Caramel Digestives

It began with caramel digestives.

He had them in his kitchen,

and confessed that one of my stories had inspired the purchase.

My heart melted,

just at the thought of finding someone who listens,

who remembers the little things,

and I watched him pour me another drink,

as I tried to look interesting and sophisticated.

I thought I might tell him,

that I ate one (just one) every day,

during lockdown,

while my heart was being broken,

by the bastard before him,

but I didn’t want to think about it,

and I wanted those biscuits to be our thing,

a sweet thing he did,

in the middle of the week,

because he was in the shops,

and thinking of me.

I thought I might play him the song I wrote for him,

but it still felt too final,

like I was staking a claim I had no right to,

but that couldn’t be right,

because he bought biscuits that reminded him of me,

and last time we were alone,

the time before this,

I asked him if I was his,

he breathlessly said yes,

and then held me close,

fast asleep,

as if he was afraid to lose me,

so,

surely it would do no harm,

to let him hear three and a half minutes of melodic “I feel the same”?

I broke a picture that he hangs on his bedroom wall,

the commotion woke him up,

I played dumb,

although,

I still don’t know what happened,

so maybe I’m not to blame,

but all the same,

I pointed and said

“I didn’t do it,

I was writing you a poem!”

and he didn’t seem mad,

so I’m starting to think he really does want me to stay.

Quite the pair.

Orphan Annie, all grown up,

and making mischievous mistakes,

a rich Daddy who says he’s not rich,

(but he can buy biscuits whenever he wants and that’s a foreign concept to me)

I don’t care what he has,

I just want to be his prized possession.

He just stared into my eyes,

and asked a serious question about dunking biscuits into tea (this is not a sexual metaphor),

so I think we’re on our way.

Last night,

before the picture fell,

and the night fell instead,

the early morning crawled closer,

I lay in his arms,

exhausted,

finally finding the courage to tell him that I missed him.

Instantly rewarded,

he said he missed me too,

I feel it,

in the warmth of his skin,

and how he reaches for my hand in his sleep.

When I awoke this morning,

he slept,

and slept,

I lay awake,

lace up and down my legs,

pleasant but possessive bonds on my wrists,

that I slept in,

because it lets me feel divine and devoted,

when I awake,

covered in reminders of him.

I was hungry,

for his embrace,

and for caramel digestives.

I remembered a dream,

which began in his bed,

last night,

he asked if I still looked at the app where we met,

and I said that I had deleted it.

Even in a dream,

I wasn’t brave enough to say that I’d done it weeks ago,

because I had a good feeling,

when it came to him,

and now that I was his,

everyone else’s attention felt like an invasion.

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