The Queen’s Speech will be on soon.
We are in a palace of ripped wrapping paper and sentimental consumerism,
playing house under the Christmas tree,
as the aroma of dinner beckons from the kitchen.
You trace the diamonds that you’ve left on my neck,
soft whispers, with a bottle of cheap booze between us,
as the anthem rings out from the ignored television set.
You spill vodka down my dress,
the sailor stripes across my chest are wet,
your former drink working it’s way through the fabric, to my breasts,
and you are so apologetic,
dabbing, so dramatic, with the napkins that were left on the coffee table.
Tinsel tangled around my wrists,
fevered, delirious kisses,
our bodies glisten and glow under the flicker of fairy lights,
and your voice is warm, as it whispers in my ear.