My breath is since-soured coffee and yours is sweet cigarette smoke.
Stale and sleepy and sweating sticky heat, we curl
       – in that vast walloping, enveloping duvet,
you know the one, that smells like Polish washing powder –
                                            bodies wound together,
entwined, intertwined, like great gangly grown up fetuses
twisted and coated in the folds of that too big, yellowing duvet.

We are wrapped in soft green Polish hills, asleep in fluffy clean Polish
clouds.
Anatomical specimens, suspended, glistening green and gold in the contents of
their jar, still
– silent, glazed like sugared doughnuts, alive and yet deader-than-dead,
Fine membrane separating our slimy, conjoined bodies from outside air.
Let in, and we are spoilt.

We are stained somewhat yellow;
moulding, souring, curling at the edges,
a fog of yesterday’s breath.
We fell asleep to early rumblings of the dual carriageway chorus,
no toothpaste kisses for us.
Air of sweat and last night’s fucking,
the remaining smog of lust and living.

We are inside a kaleidoscope,
Trapped within a jewellery box,
Viewing a world from behind a stained glass window.
Prostration at the altar of the Saint-Chapelle.

Worshipping those glowing wet reds, and purples, and blues
As we stew, inside this orange, and brown, and beige.

My breath in your mouth, your breath in mine.
You gave up coffee a long time ago,
and I never smoked.