Nothing is stationary.
You make breakfast, and here my hunger is consumed by thoughts, premature. No, not thoughts of you, but what you do. The songs you play seep straight into my guts. Else, nothing is straight.
Everything is dance, and play and whizzing. Your bed is not your bed, but my seat. You are not you but my imagination. But I imagine as I fear. Nothing is straight.
It´s all spaghetti, prepared in homemade tomato sauce mashed with our very own hands, pulped to lust and juice. Yes, juice is the correct word to describe the movement inside me. It has been pouring for over twenty four hours now. That´s how wet I am.