On the Side of a Coffee Cup, Whilst
Drunk
The gentle flow of your hair
Is burnt into my mind
It grips me, strips me of thought
Demands attention
Your skin, soft like a peach,
Has robbed my fingers of sensation
They are cold
Without your warmth.
Then I run out of room
And I am left
Staring at my cup like a madman
On the 2040 from London Bridge
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