60 to 100 beats per minute
Measured in unmeasured amounts of beans,
burnt saucepans of fava turned into mush,
Puy lentils that we can never get right.
“What! You can’t eat chickpeas raw” they tell us?
But, raw is our favourite part of the night.
Quantified in naked conversations,
Running our loud mouths with no end goal,
Only broken up by kisses and touch
Legs entwined, head on your chest in the dark
Feeling your heart drum, held in your clutch
100 beats per minute, feeding your soul.
Image courtesy of Jair Lazaro