and so we fall hand in hand into the next awakening hour
watch as our bodies spill from the bed to the floor
entwined as though knotted by a sailor
there is a bird on the building opposite intent on watching our every move
and we fuck with our eyes glued to its own eyes
just to prove we can
every morning brings the pigeons with their mating dance
the males chase while the females run
and other watch to the side
are all pigeons straight?
it feels how it would feel if we were
when the football stadium roars into every thrust
cheering us on in their own fashion
it feels vulgar to write about fucking you even though everyone knows that we do
every child realises that once, their parents Did It
every married couple broadcasts to the world that they've fucked and we all just accept it as something we have to know
once it's established then it;s to be assumed, i guess
not secret in the slightest but still very private
even when the pigeons delight in observing from their rooftop perches and there is worry about the neighbour and if they're at the kitchen sink because they have a direct eyeline with the bed and the curtains aren't shut
it's totally natural and totally expected and totally fucking wonderful but still kind of feels like a secret that should be kept, but from whom?
who is this mysterious knower who should not be let in on the joke? is it God? is everything about God really? even if you don't believe in one?
there is a silence broken only by the sound of lips on skin and the heaving breaths of one who is satiated (carnally) and then over the breeze comes the roar of the stadium and under the door comes the pat of your housemate's feet and through the walls comes the rumble of the mainline train and you are not alone and you never were and everyone knows, including you