by Bridie Wilkinson

is promised by the light
currently cracking the winter frost on your window that we are trying to ignore
and although morning has arrived in your room to nudge us awake your orange jumper is smothering the phone alarms because we are happy here, now
partly because the duvet is soft partly because my forehead is resting under your chin
partly because the wind is whistling and it sounds like birdsong if we try really hard to imagine we are not in zone 2 but instead Northern Italy or Nice, maybe, crumbling croissants on our bedsheets
and everything feels possible if we stay drifting, but the day beckons us with oil hissing in a pan and egg shells cracking and you standing in your t-shirt and boxers picking back up the melody of a tune you hummed into my neck a few hours ago

and the noise fits together so perfectly that I wonder if the world has always been in harmony or if it’s just the bass-line of you that has been missing

                                                                                                                                                                        I look
at you as I pack my rucksack knowing I will leave an earring somewhere and that I will realise when I am on the train pressed up against a strangers back and I will think of you finding it but anyway you never mind, you just leave it exactly where it is as though it’s an exhibit in the National Gallery that we could go look at together on Saturday and I would rather look at that stray earring with your hand on my waist than at all the art in the world
                           you bring the eggs to the table which you’ve laid out like I don’t have to leave in ten minutes and I’ll think of this table
and the way that you balance the fork between your finger and thumb for the whole journey to work


Bridie Wilkinson | @bridifer

Co-founder of Dear Damsels, lover of eggs.

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