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

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s