Pulses

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

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