A delicate stroke

of an old nude painting

rests between her lips

with a kiss wakes her

not in the glimmer of affection.

Her phone is breaking up again,

repeating my sins since late last then.

I blinked open to a sunrise lingering between

the chandelier’s wolves.

I’ll be scaling trains to flee the city of your scent.

But everywhere I wake up, standing before

above me is the form of me you’ve got locked

in a death-grip: a sultry smile.

There you are, waiting, begging, imagining

a white dress in which you’ll fit.

By Andy Cooper

Twitter: AC0040